Pays to enjoy puzzles.I chuckle, remembering that this exactly curiosity is what got us into this mess in the first place.
Inside, the office is a shrine to precision. The desk is dark wood, surface clear except for a laptop, a closed journal, and a single black pen. The wall behind the desk is covered in a grid of framed photos. Most are landscapes, but there’s a handful of portraits. In all of them, the subjects look just slightly away fromthe camera, like they know they’re being watched but refuse to meet the lens.
On the mantle is a picture of Briar and Bentley. Bentley’s arms are slung over Briar’s shoulders and he’s looking at him, smiling.
It’s… intimate. And it makes me uncomfortable, so I turn the photo over.
I close the door behind me, the lock clicking automatically. The windows in here are smaller, high up on the wall, but they let in just enough light to see by. There’s a faint chemical smell—toner, maybe, or ink.
I start with the desk. The laptop is password-protected, of course, but the sticky note taped to the underside of the desk drawer has a string of numbers written on it in neat, looping handwriting. I try them on the login screen. It works.
Rolling my eye’s at the simplicity of how Bentley’s mind works, I start snooping.
The desktop is organized in folders: “Work,” “Travel,” “Archive,” and a fourth folder labeled “Foundry.”
My hands sweat as I click it.
Inside, there’s a list of subfolders, each named after a year. The earliest is fifteen years ago, the most recent from three months back.
I open the first. There are photos, dozens of them. Boys lined up in neat rows, all wearing identical uniforms—black track suits, white trainers, shaved heads. Briar is there, front and center, smaller than I’ve ever seen him. His jaw isn’t set yet, hiseyes a little too big for his face. Next to him is a bigger kid with a shaved head and a smile like a razor. The caption on the photo says “Briar & Bentley. Month 1.”
I click through. The boys grow older, their faces harder, the uniforms swapped for suits and blazers, then for tactical gear. Some are missing in later photos, as if they’ve been erased, and I know what that means. In the “Year 5” folder, there’s a picture of Briar in a hospital bed, a deep cut running down his cheek. The file is named “Survived.”
I keep digging. There’s a PDF labeled “Behavioral Assessment—B. Harrington.” I open it.
It’s a psych evaluation, clinical and cold. It details Briar’s inability to bond, his resistance to authority, his “demonstrated indifference to both positive and negative reinforcement.” The final line reads: “Recommend: targeted isolation, enhanced control protocols. Subject will be culled if progress is not made by end of cycle.”
I shiver, even though the room is warm.
I look up at the wall of photos and notice a picture I hadn’t in my haste to crack the laptop. The biggest frame at the center holds a single image: Brooks and Briar, both in their late teens, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a door that looks exactly like the one I just opened. They’re both bruised, bloody, but alive. The date stamp is five years ago.
Below the photo, a brass plate reads: “First Class.”
I check the drawers. The second one is locked, but the key is taped to the underside of the desk. Inside, there’s a stack offiles, all labeled “Asset: Harrington, Briar.” The first page is a printout of a test score: 100th percentile, “Compliance Scenario #27: Asset Protection.”
There’s a note in the margin, handwritten and angry: “If you keep saving him, he’ll never learn to do it himself.” I don’t recognize the handwriting, but the initials at the bottom are “A.B.”
I turn to the journal on the desk. It’s black, leather-bound, heavy in my hands. The first few pages are full of numbers and names, none of which I recognize. Then, in the middle, a folded letter on thick paper.
It’s addressed to “Brooks,” dated the year of that center photo.
I unfold it. The handwriting is blocky, almost childish.
You promised you’d get me out if it got bad. You lied. But thank you for the knife. It was sharp enough to remind me I was still alive. If I don’t make it, it’s not your fault. Tell the Director I was worth two of the others. — B.
My stomach twists.
I close the journal, put everything back exactly as I found it. I want to believe I’m done, but there’s one more thing—an envelope taped to the underside of the desk, right where a nervous hand might reach for comfort.
It’s sealed, but I open it.
Inside is a single photo, glossy and recent. Briar, in the room upstairs, asleep in the big bed, a stitched cut on his arm and oneon his stomach. He looks almost peaceful, mouth just barely open. The angle is from the doorway.
The back of the photo is blank except for a single word: “Safe.”
It’s from last night.
I hear the click of the lock before I hear the footsteps.
