Chapter 155: Portraits of What Was

Words : 1402 Updated : Sep 19th, 2025

Chapter 155: Portraits of What WasThe folders felt heavier than they should have. Not because of weight—though there were enough of them, stuffed full of trial logs and sealed reports, some with brittle edges and ink faded to a memory. No, it was the weight behind them. The screams buried in redacted lines. The lives behind those numbers. Subjects. I tucked the final stack into my backpack and slung it over my shoulder, careful not to crush the older files. I did one last sweep of the attic. Nothing else worth keeping. Just ghosts. Ones I wasn't ready to face. Not yet. The ladder creaked again as I descended. Dust still danced in the air like ash. I stepped into the hallway, fingers brushing along the faded wallpaper. I was already halfway to the door when I stopped. My feet wouldn't move. Something pulled at me. A memory wrapped in the ache of childhood. I turned back. The door to my parents' bedroom was closed. Same as it had always been. But the paint had peeled more. The handle had rusted. It clicked open with a soft push. The room hadn't changed much. A bed still covered in a thin sheet. An old dresser in the corner. The curtains sagged, half-detached from their rod. It smelled like stale air and time. Like the part of my life I'd sealed away and promised never to dig up again. But I walked in anyway. There were two framed portraits on the wall—slightly crooked, coated in dust. One of them was all three of us. I couldn't have been more than six. My mother had a tired smile, soft and genuine, and my father had one hand resting gently on my shoulder. I was in between them, missing a front tooth and grinning like I didn't know the world could break people. The second was just me and my mother. I remembered the day. She'd taken me to a cheap studio for my school photo. She wore a sweater that was too warm for the season. Her eyes were tired, but her smile was warm. Her hand was behind me. Supporting me. Even then. I didn't hesitate. I took both portraits off the wall and wiped them with the edge of my sleeve. My throat was tight. She'd died from exhaustion. Working double shifts to keep us afloat after he left. The system gave her nothing. I couldn't buy the house, couldn't keep the lights on. I was too young, too low-ranked, too invisible. And yet, no one else bought it either. No renovations. No children running in the yard. Just silence. I cradled the frames gently under one arm and left the room. The ride back felt slow. The city looked older somehow—hollowed out in a way I hadn't noticed before. Like I had new eyes, and the world around me had always been cracked beneath the surface. When I got to the apartment, the door was already open. Camille was the first to see me. "Reynard—! Where the hell have you been?" she asked, eyes wide with concern. "You ghosted us. Alexis was about to use the tracker she attached on you." Searᴄh the nôvelFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. Wait what? Alexis appeared behind her, arms crossed but visibly relieved. "Not an exaggeration." Sienna peeked from behind the couch, voice soft. "We were worried." Her voice—it wasn't as brittle as yesterday. Still quiet, still shaken, but... warmer. Grounded. I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "I'm sorry. I went to my old house." That made all of them pause. "You... what?" Camille asked, expression softening. I walked past them and placed the backpack gently on the coffee table, then held up the two frames. "I brought back a couple things." Camille moved closer, brushing dust from the edges of one of the frames. "Is that your mom?" I nodded. "She's beautiful," she said, voice hushed. Sienna leaned in beside her. "She looks kind. You have her smile." That hurt in a way I couldn't describe. But it felt good too. Like a wound pressed by familiar hands. I placed the photos on the mantle and sat down on the couch, letting the silence hold for just a moment before unzipping the bag. Then I told them everything. The attic. The files. The subjects. My father's involvement. The survival rates. Subject 3837 having died in phase 2. I looked at them. "Almost four thousand experiments," I said. "Most of them children. Some of them stabilized. They were building something—integrating... something... into human systems. Trying to control it." "And your dad—" Camille started. "He knew," I said flatly. "He had to. The files were dated before he left." Alexis opened one of the folders, scanning rapidly. "These look like real corporate reports. Internal memos, test logs, full procedural write-ups. And this emblem... it's Novacore's." "They had government support," I said. "They had to. This kind of thing doesn't happen without backing. Without a green light from the top." Sienna's hand touched mine. Gentle. "But some of them survived, right? The last page said they made it through phase one." I nodded. "Yeah. Subjects 3800 to 3837. Most of them made it to the conditioning phase. Some were monitored long-term." "Then we find them," she said, voice growing steadier. "We find the survivors. They could help us. They know what was done to them. They could be the key to exposing all of this." I smiled at her. Not because the plan was perfect. But because she said it. She was trying. Healing. But Alexis shook her head, brow furrowed. "Assuming they want to help is... naive." The room quieted again. "What do you mean?" Sienna asked. "They survived," Alexis said, tapping the files. "Meaning they were either enhanced—biologically modified—or indoctrinated. If Novacore was preparing them for something bigger, there's a high probability they were conditioned for obedience. Some of them could be agents now. Loyal to the World President. Loyal to whoever gave them purpose." "They were just kids," Camille said, brows pinched. "You think they chose that?" "I think trauma makes people malleable," Alexis replied calmly. "Some may want revenge. Others may be weaponized already. We won't know until we find them." "She's right," I said quietly. "We have to be careful. We don't know who they became." Sienna leaned into me slightly, her voice almost a whisper. "But we can't ignore them either." "No," I said. "We can't." Camille crossed her legs on the couch and leaned forward. "So what's the next move? Find them? Use the names in the files? Or do we go back to Novacore directly and see what else they buried?" "There name's aren't written..." I trailed off, glancing at the green-inked pages again. "But we can try to trace them. One at a time. Quietly. If even one of them still wants justice, that's a start." Alexis nodded. "I'll start digitizing the files. We might be able to cross-reference old census data or medical logs for matches." Sienna's hand stayed in mine as she looked at me. "And we're staying with you." "Yeah," Camille said with a wink. "You're not shaking us off now, World President." I laughed quietly. "Still not official." "You keep saying that," Camille smirked. "as if you don't have half of the world's governments on your side." Then my phone buzzed. Anthony. I stood quickly, motioning for silence as I answered. "Anthony?" His voice came through rough. Out of breath. Urgent. "Boss, we've got trouble." My blood ran cold. "What kind of trouble?" There was a pause. Then—"It's Evelyn. She's gone. Taken." My heart dropped. "No broken doors, no dramatic villain note—just poof, she's gone. And call me paranoid, but I think they wanted you to notice." The room felt still. Then Camille's eyes locked with mine. "What happened?" I lowered the phone slowly. "They took Evelyn." Sienna's breath hitched. Alexis stood up immediately. Camille's hand curled into a fist. We didn't say anything else. We didn't need to.

Chapter 155: Portraits of What Was

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