The world had gone silent after the sirens faded.
That sound — sharp, metallic, cold — still echoed in Evans's skull like a cruel reminder of what they'd done. Or worse, what they couldn't do.
Alaric was gone.
He could still see the image burned into his mind:
The blinding police floodlights slicing through the night rain.
Alaric standing there, hands raised, eyes dim but strangely calm.
The officers shouting, weapons drawn.
Evans frozen — half in shock, half in disbelief — while his best friend smiled faintly, the way you smile when you've already accepted the end.
And then, the words.
> "If I get imprisoned… tell my mom I died in a car accident."
Evans hadn't understood it then.
But now, sitting alone in his dimly lit room, he did.
The clock read 3:42 a.m.
The world outside was asleep — except for the storm that hadn't stopped since last night.
Evans's hands trembled as he opened his backpack, the same one they'd taken to Aurion Industries. Inside, hidden under a soaked hoodie, was the photo — the blurred snapshot he'd taken just before everything went wrong.
File Name: Subject 017 – Ward, Alaric.
And beneath that: "Anomalous Electrical Regeneration — containment failed."
He exhaled shakily, wiping water from his face, though he couldn't tell if it was rain or tears.
At 8:16 a.m., his phone rang.
He didn't need to check who it was — the name glowing on the screen made his stomach twist:
Mrs. Ward.
He almost didn't pick up.
But guilt is a powerful motivator.
"Evans?" Her voice was trembling, uncertain. "Sweetheart, is Alaric with you? He didn't come home last night, and I— I can't reach him."
Evans froze. His throat locked. His voice, when it came, didn't sound like his own.
"I— I don't know, Mrs. Ward."
"Did something happen?" she pressed, her tone rising in panic. "He said he was going to study with you, and now his phone's off—"
Evans swallowed hard. He could hear the fear breaking her voice apart.
He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to scream the truth — that her son was taken, that he was locked away for something he never chose to be.
But Alaric's words wouldn't leave his head.
> "Tell my mom I died in a car accident."
He couldn't do it. Not yet.
Not while the truth still made no sense.
His lips parted — but nothing came out.
"Mrs. Ward, I'll… I'll look for him, okay? Maybe he went somewhere to clear his head."
"Please," she whispered. "If you hear anything— please, just call me."
The call ended.
Evans just stood there, staring at the phone, feeling the weight of silence crush his chest.
By noon, his desk was a storm of chaos — files, printouts, hand-written notes.
He had the photo of the Subject 017 file enlarged on his screen.
Every few seconds, he zoomed in, tracing the blurred text with his finger.
Most of it was indecipherable. But one phrase made his blood run cold:
> "Aurion Neural Enhancement Program — Phase 3: Voltaic Core Integration."
He typed furiously into his laptop, searching everything he could about Aurion Industries, Neural Enhancement, Voltaic Core.
Dozens of restricted articles, government archives, scientific papers — all fragments, all redacted.
Then, a single document loaded. A forgotten patent entry buried under an old research network.
It read like a nightmare.
Descriptions of human bio-electric field manipulation, induced ionization channels, and neural burnout risk levels exceeding survivable thresholds.
He leaned closer, reading the rest — and stopped breathing.
Whatever he read next wasn't just data. It was something far worse.
His mouth fell open.
He whispered, voice breaking, "No way… they didn't—"
He slammed the laptop shut, his heart pounding.
"Subject 017…" he whispered. "They didn't create you… they rebuilt you."
He stood up so fast his chair crashed backward.
His head spun. His vision blurred.
He grabbed his hoodie and bolted out of the house.
The police station smelled of cold coffee and stale air.
Evans walked in, drenched from the rain, ignoring the glances from the officers.
He approached the front desk, his voice barely steady.
"I'm here to ask about Alaric Ward. He was… arrested last night."
The officer behind the desk flipped through some papers, squinting at the monitor.
"Name again?"
"Alaric Ward."
The officer clicked a few times, then sighed. "Yeah. He's in temporary holding. Charges are pending under trespassing and property damage. They're talking about corporate security violations. The case'll probably move to juvenile court in a few days."
Evans's chest tightened. "How long?"
"Three years," the officer said flatly. "Could be less if he behaves. You his friend?"
Evans nodded weakly.
The officer softened slightly. "Kid like him… shouldn't get mixed up in crap like that. Tell him to keep his head down."
Evans turned to leave, but his legs barely held him. Three years.
Three years for trying to understand who he was.
He didn't remember how long he'd been walking.
By the time he reached the edge of town, the rain had turned into a cold drizzle. His hoodie clung to his skin, heavy with water and guilt.
He stopped in front of an old public phone booth, the kind people rarely used anymore. Its glass was cracked, the inside fogged.
He stepped in, picked up the receiver, and dialed Mrs. Ward's number with trembling fingers.
She answered almost immediately. "Evans? Did you find him?"
He swallowed. The sound of her voice nearly broke him.
He looked down, tears mixing with the rain dripping from his hair.
"I—" His voice cracked. "Mrs. Ward… there was an accident."
There was a pause on the line. The kind that feels like the world holding its breath.
Her tone shifted — sharp, fearful. "What… what do you mean?"
Evans's fingers tightened around the receiver.
He forced the words out through the tremor in his throat.
"There was a crash. Late last night. I— I tried to help, but it was too late."
Her sob echoed through the receiver.
"No, no, no, that can't— Evans, please tell me you're joking—"
He closed his eyes, biting his lip until he tasted blood.
He wanted to scream, to break the phone, to tell her the truth.
That her son was alive. That he was somewhere cold and alone and terrified.
But Alaric's voice came back, soft and haunting.
> "Tell my mom I died in a car accident."
So he did.
Because that's what friends do, isn't it?
They keep the promises that hurt the most.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice trembling. "He— he didn't make it."
Mrs. Ward broke down on the line. Her cries echoed faintly through the static.
Evans pressed the receiver to his ear, tears streaming down his face, listening in silence until she finally hung up.
He lowered the phone slowly, staring at his own reflection in the fogged glass.
His eyes looked older. Harder.
For a long time, he stood there, unmoving.
Then he muttered to himself,
> "I'll find the truth, Alaric. Even if it kills me."
Lightning split the sky above, illuminating the empty street.
The rain began again, heavier this time — as if the world itself mourned with him.
Evans slipped the photo of Subject 017 back into his pocket.
His grip tightened around it.
Somewhere out there, behind bars and secrets, his best friend was still alive.
And Evans swore, under that storm-lit sky,
that this was not the end —
it was only the beginning of his war.