Episode One
A Job Offer Too Good to Be True
"So… let me get this straight. "You found your boyfriend having s*x with your brother, you quit your job, left the city, and now you're moving to some mysterious town in the middle of nowhere for a job you know next to nothing about?"
Lena’s voice dripped with disbelief as she threw herself onto Isla’s barely-made bed, her red curls bouncing wildly.
Isla sighed, folding the last of her clothes into the open suitcase. “When you say it like that, it sounds insane.”
Lena scoffed. “It is insane.” She propped herself up on her elbows. "Are you sure this isn't just you running away?"
A sharp pang hit Isla in the chest, but she ignored it. "Of course I'm running away." She straightened, meeting Lena’s skeptical stare. "I just don't want to sit around wallowing in self-pity while my ex and my brother play house. I need a fresh start."
Lena pursed her lips, scanning Isla's expression like a lie detector. “And you just happened to find a job with a ridiculously high salary and free housing overnight?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Too good to be true,” Lena muttered under her breath.
Isla rolled her eyes. "Would you stop being so dramatic? It's just a rehab center."
Lena huffed, throwing her hands up. "Fine. Go off and be the next ‘Florence Nightingale’. But when you find out they’re actually harvesting organs or doing illegal experiments, don’t say I didn’t warn you."
Isla laughed, but deep down, she couldn't shake the unease curling in her gut. The two friends hugged each other tightly and soon Isla was on her way.
The drive to Whitehouse Rehabilitation Center took nearly six hours, most of it through a winding forest road.
Isla had always loved road trips, windows down, music blasting, but this time, the silence in the car felt suffocating.
She tapped the GPS screen. No signal. Great, she muttered.
Her eyes flicked toward the endless stretch of trees surrounding the road. Tall, imposing, too perfectly arranged. Like something out of a horror movie where a woman driving alone suddenly disappears.
A nervous chuckle left her lips. "Relax, Isla. It's just a job."
By the time she arrived, the sun had started its descent, casting long, golden shadows across the facility’s perimeter.
Then she saw the fence.
Not a simple boundary, but a towering, electrified barricade, lined with armed guards patrolling the perimeter.
Her stomach twisted, an unfriendly coil simmering inside her.
"Rehab center, my ass."
Pulling up to the checkpoint, she rolled down her window as a uniformed man approached.
He was built like a soldier. Tall, broad, and intimidating, his face unreadable beneath the dimming sky.
"Name?" His voice was clipped and stern.
"Isla Carter. New hire."
He checked his tablet, then nodded. "Proceed to the main building. Dr. Monroe is expecting you."
Isla hesitated. "Right. Uh, what kind of patients do you…."
“Drive straight in, Miss Carter.”
The dismissal was clear, he had no business discussing any details with her.
As she passed through the reinforced gates, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t entering a workplace.
She was entering a prison.
The main facility was a stark contrast to the heavily secured exterior. It was modern, sleek, almost clinical. White walls, cold floors, and an unsettling quiet that sent chills up her spine.
A woman in a gray coat and sharp glasses approached, her expression unreadable.
"You must be Isla Carter. I'm Dr. Lillian Monroe, Head of Operations."
Isla forced a smile, offering her hand. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Monroe."
The doctor gave a quick, formal shake before gesturing for Isla to follow.
"Let’s get your orientation started. You'll be working in patient rehabilitation, primarily observation and behavioral analysis."
That sounded… normal. Almost reassuring, Isla thought.
"So, therapy? Counseling?" Which is it? Isla asked, glancing at the pristine hallways.
Dr. Monroe’s lips tensed. “Something like that.”
Isla frowned as they kept walking . “What kind of facility is this, exactly?”
Dr. Monroe’s step didn’t falter, but there was a fraction of hesitation before she answered.
"Whitehouse is a specialized institution for high-risk individuals who require… unique rehabilitation methods."
That sounded vague as hell.
“Are these patients dangerous?” Isla pressed.
"You’ll be briefed on a need-to-know basis."
That was answer enough for Isla.
As they turned a corner, Isla noticed a set of doors unlike the others.
Unlike the rest of the facility, which was sleek and modern, these doors were reinforced with thick steel, guarded by two men armed with tranquilizer rifles.
"What’s in there?" Isla asked, slowing her pace.
Dr. Monroe didn’t even glance back. "Not part of your department."
But that was a damn lie.
After an hour of signing paperwork, Isla was led to her new living quarters. A surprisingly spacious suite within the facility.
The bed was neatly made. The air smelled like antiseptic and fresh flowers.
It was too perfect and too clean.
As she unpacked, she noticed there were no personal touches. No family photos on the walls. No signs of the previous occupant.
Like they had simply… vanished.
That night, a strange howl echoed through the halls.
Isla shot up in bed, her heart hammering.
It wasn’t a coyote. It wasn’t a wolf.
It was something else entirely.
She clutched the sheets, straining her ears to listen.
Then came another sound, a deep, guttural growl, reverberating through the walls.
Her skin went ice cold.
What kind of rehab center was this? The rest of the night was a blur as Isla kept jerking from her sleep.
The next morning, Isla was sent to retrieve files from the records office.
Dr. Monroe had made it clear that her clearance was limited. She wasn’t allowed in certain wings of the facility.
So when Isla turned down the wrong corridor, she knew she should have turned back.
Instead, she saw a door ajar.
And curiosity got the better of her.
Inside, the office was dimly lit, stacks of classified files neatly organized.
One was left open on the desk.
The moment Isla’s eyes landed on the contents, her breath caught in her throat.
A photo, but not of a patient. Rather that of a predator and she would soon come to know about it.
A man with golden eyes that burned like fire, his face half-shadowed in the dim light.
A name was stamped at the top:
‘KAEL DRAVEN’
Below it, three chilling words were scrawled in red ink:
"EXTREME CONTAINMENT – FERAL RISK."
Isla’s stomach dropped, like a snake was slithering inside her as she held the photo on her hand.
Whatever this place was…She was in the wrong damn job.
Before Isla could shut the file, a deep voice echoed from the doorway.
"You shouldn't be in here, Miss Carter."
