Chapter 8 – Burn the Truth
939 Words
Ethan’s POV
She was still holding the photograph.
The one of us—children, unaware of the burden fate had laced into our blood.
I couldn’t stop staring at it.
How had I never seen it before? How had I never remembered?
Because someone didn’t want me to.
Because someone had built me to forget.
Isabella looked at me like I was made of glass. Like I might shatter if she said the wrong thing. But I wasn’t fragile. I was furious.
“You’ve known,” I said. “Haven’t you?”
Her jaw tightened. “Not everything.”
“But enough.”
A beat of silence. Then, she nodded.
“I knew about the lab. I knew my father was hiding something under the estate. And I knew you looked too much like—”
“Isaac?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
“No,” she said. “Like the one before him.”
That silenced me.
She walked to the window, drawing back the curtain just an inch, scanning the grounds. “We don’t have time to fight. Someone’s trying to cover this up.”
I followed her gaze. The security camera on the outer gate was offline.
“Was that you?” I asked.
“No. And that’s exactly why we need to move.”
She dropped the photo into her folder and snapped it shut. “We have to go back to the lab. Now.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were in the tunnels beneath the estate.
The last time I’d been here, the doors were sealed, the lights off. Now they flickered ominously, casting shadows that twitched with every step.
“What exactly are we looking for?” I asked, my voice echoing off concrete.
“Backups,” Isabella said. “Hard drives. Samples. Anything they couldn’t destroy quickly.”
We reached the main lab chamber. The air smelled like scorched metal.
And that’s when I saw it.
Black soot smeared across the counters. Broken vials. Burn marks along the main terminal.
Someone had torched the room.
“Damn it,” she whispered, rushing toward the server unit.
I stayed near the doorway, watching our backs. The corridor stretched in both directions—silent. Too silent.
“I think they wiped the local data,” Isabella said, kneeling beside the terminal. “But if I can reboot—”
A soft click echoed behind me.
Gun safety disengaged.
I turned, fast, just as a figure stepped from the shadows.
Black clothes. Mask. Gloves. Rifle raised.
I lunged.
The shot went off, exploding plaster above my shoulder. My momentum carried me into him, knocking us both to the ground. The rifle clattered away.
We rolled, fists flying. He was fast—trained. But so was I.
I slammed his head into the wall. Once. Twice. His grip loosened.
I pulled off his mask.
And froze.
Isaac.
My brother.
Bleeding from the temple, lips twisted into a bloody smile.
“You were supposed to stay buried,” he hissed.
I grabbed his shirt. “You knew?! You knew what they did to me?”
He laughed. “You think I didn’t help plan it?”
My stomach twisted.
Behind me, Isabella had stopped typing. “Isaac,” she whispered. “Why?”
He looked past me at her. “Because you were mine. And he was supposed to disappear.”
I wanted to hit him again—but something in his eyes changed.
Panic.
“No,” he gasped suddenly. “They’re coming. They’re watching—always watching—”
A sound exploded through the corridor.
Not a gun.
A gas release.
White fog burst from vents in the ceiling.
“RUN!” I shouted, grabbing Isabella’s hand.
She didn’t argue.
We sprinted back the way we came, the gas chasing us like a ghost. My lungs burned. My head spun.
We barely made it through the tunnel hatch before I slammed it shut and locked it from the outside.
She collapsed against the wall, coughing. I fell beside her.
“What... the hell was that?” I rasped.
She shook her head. “A failsafe. They didn’t just destroy the evidence—they’re erasing everyone who saw it.”
My head swam. “Isaac—”
“He’s gone,” she whispered.
We sat in silence. My ears still ringing from the shot. My chest still pounding from Isaac’s words.
You were supposed to disappear.
They planned it.
All of it.
Back in my room, hours later, I stared at the velvet box again.
At the document.
At my name.
Isabella sat across from me, cross-legged on the floor, going through recovered files on a separate drive she’d salvaged. Her expression was a storm.
Finally, I spoke.
“Why me?”
She looked up. “What?”
“They could’ve made a dozen ‘Subjects.’ Why did they choose me to survive?”
She didn’t answer right away. Then she said, “Because you fought.”
My brow furrowed. “What?”
She tapped the screen. A video played. A young boy—me—trashing lab equipment, screaming, resisting.
“You never followed orders like the others,” she said. “You refused the drugs. The conditioning. My mother... she saw something in you.”
Her voice broke. “She died for you.”
I looked at her, the image of my childhood self frozen on the screen.
“I don’t remember any of it,” I whispered.
She leaned forward.
“Then let’s take it back.”
Her hand reached for mine.
And I didn’t pull away.
Not this time.
- Writer
