The rain had started just as Tim pulled up to Havenbrook House, droplets streaking down his windshield like a slow, relentless warning. He killed the engine and sat there for a moment, watching the building through the blur.
It didn't look like a foster home. It looked like a bank.
Polished glass, steel framing, and a brushed metal sign: Havenbrook Youth Facility—A Cetus Foundation Partner. The Cetus logo was etched beneath in quiet authority, its minimalist design clean, cold, and unmistakable.
Tim's fingers curled tighter around the photo of Eva in his lap. Five years old. Smiling like she didn't know the world could break people. She was placed here, he thought. And then she vanished.
He stepped into the rain without an umbrella, letting it soak through his coat. The water didn't matter. Answers did.
Inside, the lobby was all sleek surfaces and clinical quiet. Not a child in sight. The walls were white, the floor a muted grey. Modern art prints hung perfectly straight, like they'd never been touched by human hands.
The receptionist didn't look up until Tim stood directly in front of her. "Good morning," she said, voice rehearsed. "How can I help you today?"
"Tim Delaney," he said, flashing his ID. "I'm conducting a legal inquiry into a former resident. Eva Delaney, placed here in 2007."
Her polite expression flickered for a second—something like hesitation—but she quickly recovered. "I'll notify Director Beckett."
Five minutes later, Director Lorna Beckett swept into the room like she had better places to be. Tailored grey suit, hair in a tight bun, and eyes that missed nothing.
"Mr. Delaney," she said flatly. "Our receptionist explained that all historical records were transferred to corporate archives when Cetus became our parent partner. I'm afraid I can't help you."
Tim kept his tone measured. "I understand, but I'd like to verify if Eva Delaney's records were included in that transfer. There are gaps—critical ones."
Beckett folded her arms. "Our hands are tied. Corporate policy prohibits direct access to archived files. You'll need to submit a formal request to Cetus Legal."
"I have," Tim replied. "They redirected me here."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Then they've made a mistake."
There was something in her eyes—a flicker of tension. Not fear, not guilt. Protocol. Obedience. Someone was following orders far above her pay grade.
Tim nodded slowly. "Understood."
He walked out without another word.
Back in his car, the photo of Eva sat on the passenger seat, damp around the edges. He stared at it, heart pounding.
He knew stonewalling when he saw it. This wasn't bureaucratic red tape. This was intentional obfuscation.
He opened his tablet, pulling up the file Harris had pieced together from multiple court databases. Eva's placement records were fragmented, some entirely redacted. But one metadata note remained—missed during Cetus's sanitization.
"Subject transfer complete. Viability is low. Regression is stable at 5%. Recommend termination or reassignment."
Tim stared at the words.
Subject: Viability. Termination.
This wasn't child welfare. This was a clinical assessment—medical, maybe, but inhuman. Like she was an experiment. Like she wasn't a person at all.
A surge of nausea hit him.
What the hell did they do to her?
Lex Armstrong's voice crackled from the car radio, mid-interview.
"—and that's why the Cetus Foundation will continue to lead in innovation and healing. For our families, for our future. Together, we'll build a stronger tomorrow."
Tim reached over and switched it off. He didn't need to hear Lex Armstrong's voice selling salvation while his sister was being erased.
The rain hadn't stopped.
By the time Tim reached his apartment, he was soaked to the bone, the collar of his coat clinging to his neck like a second skin. He tossed it aside the moment he stepped inside, dripping water on the hardwood floor.
He didn't notice. His mind was elsewhere.
Eva. Subject viability. Termination. The words kept echoing, each one heavier than the last.
He dropped into the chair at his desk and opened his laptop. The screen glowed to life, casting his face in pale light. He plugged in Harris's encrypted drive—the one full of legal loopholes Cetus probably never thought would bite them back.
Let's see how deep the rabbit hole goes.
He opened the directory marked "Cetus - Internal." It had taken Harris a week to scrape it together, and now it felt like holding a live grenade.
Shell companies, fronts, acquisitions. Most of it was vague. Carefully worded filings, documents with redacted lines. But one name caught his eye:
Nautilus Advanced Care—a Cetus subsidiary.
He clicked. Dozens of routine incident reports, surveillance summaries, and a few video files.
Tim scanned the file names: Maintenance Logs, Shift Rotas, Security Footage—Rooftop, and Security Alert—Archive Wing.
Rooftop?
He clicked it.
The footage loaded slowly. Grainy black-and-white, timestamped two weeks ago, 2:13 AM.
The camera panned the rooftop of a Cetus facility—he couldn't tell which one—but it looked quiet. Deserted.
Then, in the corner, movement.
Tim leaned forward, heart rate quickening.
A figure—tall, cloaked, standing still against the wind. No clear face, no clear form. Just... there.
And then, the screen glitched. The image fuzzed out for two seconds before returning. The figure was gone.
Tim rewound the footage. Frame by frame, he paused on one moment—a faint glow. Not from the building lights. From the figure's eyes.
"Not possible," he muttered. "That's—"
The camera glitched again. The video ended.
He stared at the screen. This wasn't a regular intruder. This wasn't even someone Cetus seemed aware of—the report attached said:
"Motion detected. No breach confirmed. Roof secured. No further action."
No further action? Someone had been on their roof, and they ignored it?
Or they covered it up.
He stood, pacing the room, heart pounding. Could this be connected to Eva? To those cryptic phrases—viability, termination?
A noise outside pulled him from his thoughts. He walked to the window, peering through the blinds.
Across the street, a black SUV sat idle. Headlights off. Engine running.
It had been there yesterday. And the day before.
Tim's skin crawled.
They're watching me too.
Back at his desk, he scoured the files again.
Then, buried in access logs, he found it: a schedule for facility lockdowns. One building flagged: Cetus Headquarters – Midnight Maintenance, Friday.
He checked the calendar.
Friday was tomorrow.
Why lock down at midnight?
His mind worked fast—legal filings, security schedules, shipment manifests—and suddenly, it fit. Cover for a clandestine event. Something they didn't want the public to see.
Eva was transferred. Terminated or reassigned. What if she were being moved again? Auctioned? Used?
His stomach turned.
He stared at the clock. Midnight tomorrow.
He had to get inside.
.
.
.
Tim barely slept.
After what he saw—the file, the footage, that SUV parked outside—he knew time wasn't on his side. Cetus was moving something, or someone, and if Eva was involved, he couldn't afford to waste another second playing by the rules.
By dawn, his living room had transformed into a war room.
Legal pads littered the table, filled with scribbles and crossed-out plans. Blueprints of the Cetus headquarters—pulled from public records—were pinned across the wall, annotated with entry points, patrol zones, and blind spots. A map of the city grid lay open, marked with access tunnels and service routes.
Tim paced in front of it all, cup of black coffee in hand, the bitter taste keeping him tethered to reality.
He was a lawyer, not a spy. His tools were arguments, not weapons. But law had limits—and this was beyond any courtroom.
Step One: Infiltration.
Cetus HQ was a fortress, but Tim had found a possible crack—a maintenance access tunnel beneath the east wing, normally used for emergency services. According to a buried city record, it hadn't been updated in over a decade. Perfect for slipping in unnoticed—assuming it wasn't sealed.
He'd need tools—a flashlight, a compact crowbar, and his multi-tool knife. Nothing illegal. Nothing overt. If he got caught, he'd argue investigative due diligence—a long shot, but better than armed trespassing.
Step Two: Data Extraction.
He pulled out his encrypted USB drive, used for case audits, and wiped it clean. Inside Cetus, he'd need to move fast, find anything with Eva's name. Medical files. Video footage. Experiment logs.
He didn't know what he'd find. But if he walked away empty-handed, it was over.
Step Three: Escape.
There was no step three. He'd have to improvise. Legal mind meets chaos.
He stared at the map again, heart pounding.
You're out of your depth, Delaney.
But he thought of Eva—her laugh, her tiny hands gripping his during storms, and the way she'd whisper, "You're my hero, Tim."
He had to be her hero again.
.
.
.
Friday – 11:30 PM
Tim stood in an alley across from Cetus HQ.
The building towered above, its glass façade gleaming under floodlights. Security was tight—guards at every door, cameras panning methodically, delivery trucks pulling into a side bay.
He adjusted his coat, pulling his hood low. No suit tonight. No courtroom mask. Just black clothes, gloves, and a resolve carved from desperation.