He shrugs. “Taste what?”
I lift the cup. “The water. Something’s off.”
He narrows his eyes, then takes a sip from his own.
“Just your imagination, Jill. You’ve been on edge.”
I stare at him. “That’s your answer to everything lately.”
“Maybe becauseyou’vegot a theory for everything lately,” he snaps back. “Conspiracies, data tampering, shadow monsters?—”
“I didn’t saymonster,” I hiss, leaning in, “I saidunknown.There’s a difference.”
He exhales and looks away. “Whatever. It’s water. We filter it. We test it. We drink it. That’s the job.”
But itshouldn’ttaste like this.
Later, I slip into the lab when no one’s watching. Not Ciampa, not the techs, not even the lingering drone that buzzes near the observation window. I dig through the sample vault until I find what I’m looking for—a vial from the well I discovered weeks ago. The one I’d kept quiet. Hidden. Just in case.
I run a comparison between it and the current filtered supply.
And what I find doesn’t make sense.
The base elements are there. Hydrogen, oxygen. Trace sediment. Fluoride within expected ranges. But thecomposition—the mineral distribution—is different. The well sample has these faint calcium spikes, magnesium variances, and something else. Something I can’t identify right away.
I isolate the anomaly, filter it out, and run a neural simulation based on exposure.
My throat goes dry.
The compound in the well water… it’s affecting neural chemistry. Subtle, slow, but real. Calming stress responses, enhancing memory retention. Not enough to drug someone—but enough to change how theythink.
I label it “Variant Mineral #17” in the log and encrypt the results.
I don’t trust anyone with this. Not yet.
Definitely not Darwin. And not Ciampa, whose shadow seems longer each time he slinks past my workstation like a vulture sniffing for weakness.
I slip the vial back into its hiding place in my satchel.
But that’s not the only thing weighing on my mind.
The trails are changing.
There’s one route near the cliffs I always avoided—too unstable, too exposed. But now… now there’s a line of small stones stacked deliberately near the bend, and when I take the path, the gravel is packed down, scuffed with claw marks that don’t match any local fauna.
And another spot—near the canyon spring, where the ground steams in the early morning—someone’s carved a crescent into the sand. I would’ve missed it if I wasn’t watching closely. Just a shallow arc with a dot in the center. A warning symbol? A landmark?
Whatever it is, it wasn’t there before.
Someone’s clearing paths.
Not for the team. Not for the marines.
For me.
And I think I know who.
But the idea alone makes my chest go tight.
