By morning, the signal had gone out.
Data dumps. Transaction logs. Genetic sequences with attached names. Names that burned like war crimes.
Ashton stared at the blinking transmitter. “It's done."
Erin sat against the wall, knees pulled to her chest. “They'll retaliate."
“I know."
He glanced at her. She looked pale, hollow, silent. But it wasn't exhaustion—it was resolve.
Then he noticed it.
A folder tucked beneath her satchel. Old. Sealed. Stamped with Classified – Level Black.
He reached for it.
“Don't," she said sharply.
He froze. “What's in it?"
“Evidence."
“Of what?"
“My signature."
She rose slowly, walked over, and opened the folder herself.
Inside: field test results. Human subjects. Ages: 5–16. Pain thresholds. Mutation rates.
And one name repeated across top margin
