The lies are everywhere. In the potted plants and the soft lighting and the framed certificates of accreditation. All of it fake. All of it designed to hide the monsters behind the masks.
Helena's office is at the end of the hall. Double doors, polished brass handles, a nameplate that reads "Director" in elegant script.
The doors are open.
I slow my approach, rifle up, scanning for threats. The hallway is empty. No guards, no staff, no one fleeing for the exits. Just silence and the hum of air conditioning.
Too quiet.
I reach the doorway and press myself against the frame, stealing a glance inside.
The office is large and well-appointed. A massive desk dominates the center, flanked by bookshelves and filing cabinets. A bank of monitors lines one wall, displaying feeds from throughout the facility. And standing in front of those monitors, watching my approach with calm interest, is Helena Cross.
She's dressed in a tailored suit, charcoal gray, as if she's attending a board meeting rather than overseeing the torture of children.
Her eyes find mine through the doorway. They're the color of ice. Empty and cold and utterly without remorse.
"Subject H3," she says. Her voice is exactly as I remember. The voice of nightmares. "I wondered when you'd come home."
I step into the doorway, rifle trained on her chest. "That's not my name."
"No? It's the name I gave you. The only name that matters, from a certain perspective." She doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Just stands there, watching me with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a particularly interesting specimen. "You've exceeded all projections, you know. The Harrison Protocol was designed to create soldiers. You've become something else entirely. A leader. A symbol. I'm quite proud of the work."
"Proud." The word tastes like poison. "You're proud of what you did to me. To my brothers. To every child in this building."
"I'm proud of the results. The methodology was sound. The subjects who survived are among the most capable operatives in the world." She tilts her head, studying me. "You're living proof. Look at what you've accomplished. What you've become. None of that would have been possible without my work."
"I became this despite your work. Not because of it."
"That's what you tell yourself. But we both know the truth." She takes a step toward me, and I tighten my grip on the rifle. "Everything you are, everything you're capable of, I created. The violence. The precision. The ability to compartmentalize emotion and act with perfect efficiency. Those aren't natural traits. They're engineered."
"Stay where you are."
"Or what? You'll shoot me?" She smiles, and it doesn't reach her eyes. Nothing reaches those eyes. "You could have done that the moment you walked in. But you're still talking. Still listening. Because some part of you wants to understand. Wants to know why."
She’s using reverse psychology on me, but Idowant to know why.
"Why?" The word tears out of me. "Why children? Why any of this?"
"Because children are malleable. Their brains are still forming, still open to influence. Adults resist conditioning. Children embrace it." She spreads her hands, a gesture of explanation. "The work we do here isn't cruelty for its own sake. It's refinement. Optimization. We're creating the next generation of human capability."
"You're creating weapons. Slaves."
"We're creating potential. What that potential becomes is up to the individual." She looks at me with something that might be admiration. "You chose to fight against what I made you. Others chose to embrace it. The choice was always yours."
"There was no choice. You took that from us."
"I gave you a foundation. A framework. The choices you made afterward are your own." She takes another step. "You can kill me, Subject H3. You probably will. But it won't change what you are. It won't undo what I did. And it certainly won't save those children. They're already mine. The conditioning is complete. Even if you take them from this building, they'll carry my work inside them for the rest of their lives."
My finger tightens on the trigger.
One shot. That's all it would take. One bullet, and the architect of my nightmares is gone. One squeeze, and thirty years of horrors end.
But she's wrong about one thing.
"You didn't make me," I say. "You tried. You failed. I'm not your creation. I'm your consequence."
I lower the rifle.
