The Cure

The Leak

I knew the silence wouldn’t last.

Noah warned me. Every encrypted message we exchanged felt heavier, like we were dragging something ancient and alive through the wires. I ran the simulations at odd hours, coded data files with misleading labels, and stored my backups on external drives buried beneath fake logs. Still, it wasn’t enough.

I first felt it in my bones—before the data breach, before Carl’s sudden visit, before the legal language wrapped itself around my inbox like a noose.

Something wasn’t right.

We kept the coral’s antiviral properties quiet. Too quiet. Only five of us knew the full scope—me, Noah, Anika, Luis… and Tim. And yet, Erebos moved too quickly, too surgically. They knew what to look for. Where to look.

The night I received the first access attempt notification, I was in the lab alone, watching the sample fluoresce under UV light. The neutralization rate had surpassed 98%. Noah had called it miraculous. But miracles don’t stay hidden long—not in this world.

I turned off the lights and sat in the dark. Thinking.

One of them was talking.

The next day, I found Tim in his office, hunched over a data readout. I closed the door behind me.

“We have a leak,” I said.

He didn’t ask who. Just leaned back, let out a long breath. “I’ve had the same feeling.”

I showed him the access logs. “Someone tried to clone the viral resistance models last night. From an external drive.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “They were blocked?”

“Yeah. But not before they pulled metadata—enough to give Erebos a clear picture of what we’re working on.”

He leaned forward. “It’s not you. It’s not me. And Noah’s been running countermeasures for us since day one.”

“So… Anika or Luis.”

I hated saying it. I trusted them. But I trusted Danny’s life more.

We set the trap that night.

Tim created three versions of the coral compound analysis—each file tagged with a slightly different fake descriptor and access point. One claimed the coral produced a synthetic antiviral protein. Another described it as a microbial hybrid. The third was pure fiction: a claim that it functioned as an RNA retrovirus weapon.

Each file was coded to ping a silent server if opened outside our firewall.

Then we waited.

It didn’t take long. Less than 36 hours.

The ping came from the second file—Noah’s server flagged the access immediately. File tag: Hybrid Protein Chain K-13. Accessed remotely. From a VPN. The endpoint? Anika’s lab workstation.

Tim didn’t speak for a moment. Then he said, “She must’ve given someone access. Erebos isn’t dumb—they wouldn’t let her send it directly.”

“Maybe she thought it wouldn’t trace back to her,” I said. “Maybe they paid her off. Or threatened her.”

Luis was shocked when I told him. “Anika? No. She’s been here since the beginning.”

“Too close,” I said.

We didn’t confront her right away. Not yet. Instead, we began redirecting access—quietly isolating her permissions, moving the real data off-grid. Tim rerouted the tank monitoring feeds to a private node only Noah and I could see.

That’s when Carl showed up again.

This time, he wasn’t even pretending.

“You’ve got something valuable,” he said, voice low and practiced. “The board wants it under formal review. It’s not a request.”

“I know about Anika,” I said flatly.

Carl didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head. “You think this is a personal betrayal? It’s just business, Tia.”

“No,” I said. “It’s a disease. And I won’t let you own the cure.”

Carl’s smile thinned. “Then I hope you’re ready to fight for it.”

That night, I gathered the team. Just the ones I trusted.

Noah. Luis. Tim.

Anika wasn’t invited.

“We go back down,” I told them. “Before Erebos locks the site, before they send in their private submersibles and strip the trench bare. We do this on our terms.”

Luis nodded, face pale but determined. “What about Anika?”

“I’ll handle it,” I said. “We’ll make it look like a shutdown. Routine maintenance. She won’t know we’re going until we’re already under.”

Noah grinned. “One last ghost dive.”

Tim looked at me. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

I thought of Danny. His small hand gripping mine in the hospital. His lungs rattling at night. The way he looked up at me with quiet trust.

“I was born ready,” I said.