That one hangs heavier.
“Notwhatlike some scientist in a lab coat. I mean…” I bite my lip. “You fight like a warrior. You hide like a ghost. You leave gifts like…”
I stop myself before I can saylike you care.
“I just wanna understand. That’s all. I swear.”
Still nothing.
That night, I dream again.
But it’s not like before.
This time, I’m standing in the canyon, but the sky’s burning—violet and gold, streaked with green like veins in quartz. The wind howls, and everything smells of scorched earth and blood.
He’s there. Standing at the edge of the cliff, his back to me.
I call out—but my voice is swallowed.
He turns anyway.
And his eyes…
They burn straight through me--
I wake up gasping, heart slamming against my ribs.
It’s still dark.
The camp is quiet, the hum of the perimeter fence low and steady.
And then—I hear something.
A whisper of movement. A breath that isn’t mine.
I sit up slowly, eyes searching the dark beyond the tent flap. But there’s nothing. No shadow. No form. No glowing eyes.
Still… Ifeelit.
Like being watched. But not in a threatening way.
Like beingseen.
And then I smile, pressing my fingers to the pocket where the fang still rests.
They say knowledge will set you free. Yet, the opposite seems to be true here.
The more I read, the less I sleep.
Carson's files are a damn black hole—every new document dragging me further into a nightmare I can’t wake up from. What started as a handful of encrypted logs has turned into a sprawling mess of deceit. Ciampa’s fraud goes beyond budget lies and misplaced supplies. He’s been covering up everything. Diverting food. Falsifying death reports. Misrepresenting risk assessments so severely that earlier expeditions walked into traps blind.
Some of those reports list “accidental” deaths.
I know better now.
My fingers tremble as I scroll through the files, the soft blue glow of the compad screen illuminating the shadows of my bunk. I’m curled under the thin blanket, knees pressed to my chest like that’ll somehow make me smaller, less exposed. But the truth is like acid in my gut. There’s nowhere to hide from it. Carson knew. He tried to stop it. And Ciampa had him silenced. I’m sure of it now. I feel like I’m drowning in proof, and no one to throw me a rope.
Darwin won’t help. Not anymore. I see the fear in his eyes when I ask too many questions. He changes the subject, deflects,pretends he’s busy. He knows something. Maybe he’s part of it. Or maybe he’s just scared, like me.
