The night air stung his skin when Joe stepped out of the narrow corridor beneath the parking garage. His phone flashlight was dead; only the dim street light illuminated the rusty walls and puddles of rainwater that hadn't dried yet.
He paused briefly at the edge of the parking lot, staring at the body of the man who was still lying on the concrete floor. His face was crushed; blood dried around his nose and mouth. There was no sign of life, just heavy silence.
Joe took a deep breath, then knelt beside him. His left hand trembled slightly as he checked the jacket pockets, then the pants pockets. In the inner pocket, his fingers touched something hard—a key. An ordinary metal key, no label, no keychain, just scratched in some parts as if it had been used for a long time.
He stared at the object for a long time. For some reason, there was a faint urge in his mind. Rick. The name crossed his mind just like that—the only person left from the past who might be able to help. If anyone could understand or fix what was on Clara's flash drive, maybe only Rick could.
Joe stood up, looking at the body one more time before walking away. His steps echoed between the parking concrete pillars. In front of the hospital, rows of vehicles were parked silently, some covered in dust.
Joe walked straight to the old black sedan with the cracked window on the right side—the same car he had suspected before. He tried the key in the car door, and a small click sounded. The key fit.
Joe got in, sat in the driver's seat. The smell of old leather and dust filled the cabin. The engine rattled loudly when he started it, but it came to life after the third attempt. He looked in the rearview mirror—only darkness behind, and the silhouette of the hospital building that stood silently.
He drove the car slowly out of Ashford. Street lights became scarcer; the sound of the engine merged with a distant hum from the quiet highway. The remaining rain from the afternoon dripped on the windshield, leaving thin streaks between the reflections of the red lights.
The trip to Blackridge took nearly half a day. Along the way, his mind spun on too many things—Clara's face, the fire that swallowed the house, and flashes of his own shadow in the parking lot just now. Movements he didn't realize. Instincts that seemed not his own.
Every time his eyes fell on the bloodstain on his arm, his chest felt tight. He lit a cigarette, only to put it out again halfway.
When the sky began to pale, a sign that dawn was approaching, a wooden board with the words "Welcome to Blackridge" appeared on the roadside. The town was small, quieter than Ashford, but holding a heavy air—like a place that didn't want to be disturbed.
Joe drove down the main street, then turned towards the outskirts of the town, to a house with an unkempt lawn and a large garage with corrugated walls. From inside the garage, the sound of a welding machine and clanging metal could be heard.
He stopped in front of the fence, got out of the car, and knocked on the garage door. The welding sound stopped. A few seconds of silence before the iron door slid upward. Rick stood behind it—hair messy, hands covered in oil, eyes half-shocked.
"Joe...? Damn, I thought you were—" Rick stopped, then sighed heavily. "It's been a long time."
Joe just nodded. No hug, no smile, just the gaze of two people who were equally tired of life.
"My condolences," Rick said, softly. "I heard about June and Clara."
Joe didn't answer. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the small flash drive that was damaged on one side. "I found this. I need you to see what's inside it."
Rick accepted the object, glanced at it, then pointed toward his work table which was full of cables and used monitors. "Let me see what I can do."
A few minutes passed. The sound of the machine's fan and the typing of the keyboard were heard, while Joe stood near the garage window, looking at the light rain outside. Rick grumbled softly, tinkering with the drive, then said quietly, "Most of the data is corrupted. But there is one folder that is still readable."
He typed a few more lines, and on the screen a collection of random text appeared, some cut off, some clearly readable. Among them one name appeared repeatedly—HARLOW.
HARLOW INDUSTRIES – Confidential Archive
Rick squinted. "Harlow Industries... Joe, do you know who they are? A biotech giant, one of the biggest in the world. They have influence reaching the military. But why is this name on Clara's flash drive?"
Joe didn't answer. His face tightened.
"Clara couldn't possibly have access to documents like this," Joe said slowly. "She's a nurse, not a researcher."
Rick turned, his voice low. "Or... maybe she was hiding something from you."
Silence again. Joe looked down, then looked at the flash drive as if looking at a secret that had just dug its own grave.
"Clara wouldn't—" his voice broke off. He wasn't sure anymore.
Rick took a deep breath. "Okay, I'll keep digging. But Joe… if this is really government-related, we have to be careful. People like them don't like their data touched."
Joe stood up. His gaze was stiff.
"I don't care," Joe said, his voice low and steady. "There is nothing more they can take from me."
Rick just nodded. He knew that face—a face ready for anything, full of wounds but without fear. Only this time, there was something darker behind his eyes.
He returned to the laptop, rewriting some scripts, trying to penetrate another part of the drive. After a while, the screen displayed a new set of folders, but most were locked with a high-level security system. One of them only displayed a single line of text:
ACCESS GRANTED: MARCUS.V
Rick frowned. "Marcus who?"
Joe stared at the name for a long time. Something trembled in his chest—either a memory, or a bad feeling sticking to the back of his neck.
He didn't know who Marcus was, but one thing was certain: The name wasn't a coincidence.
Rick turned to him. "Do you know him?"
Joe only answered softly, almost like a mutter, "No… but I think he might know me."
And on the screen, the final text appeared—one small line that made the air in the room feel colder:
SUBJECT V – STATUS: INACTIVE
LAST SIGNAL: LOST
Rick frowned. "Subject V? Like… experimental notes?"
Joe stared at the screen. The word inactive felt odd. Something in his chest throbbed softly, like a faint resonance that had just awakened from a long sleep.
Rick typed again, trying to open another file. The computer fan sound changed tone, the screen shook for a moment—and suddenly, the letters on the monitor shifted by themselves, rewriting the sentence.
SUBJECT V – REACTIVATION CONFIRMED
TRACKING PROTOCOL ENABLED
Joe's chest suddenly felt heavy. There was a faint sound like an electrical hum inside his skull—or maybe just his imagination. But the vibration was real, running from his spine to his fingertips.
Rick froze. "What did you do, Joe?"
"I… I don't know," Joe replied, his voice almost inaudible. He felt a sharp pain in the side of his head, as if something was trying to break through his mind.
Rick tried to close the system, but the screen kept flashing, displaying additional codes:
Operator ID: HALDEN, V.
LINK ESTABLISHED — ECHO RESPONSE DETECTED.
Joe stared at the text for a long time, his vision blurry. There was a faint shadow in his mind—someone in a white room, his body full of cables, blood dripping slowly from his temple. He didn't recognize the face, but his heart rate seemed to resonate with that figure.
The screen suddenly went black.
Silence.
Joe took a deep breath, his voice hoarse.
"Maybe… I wasn't the only one who was experimented on."
And on the monitor screen which was now dark, Joe's reflection still appeared—beneath it, the last message glowed faintly before finally dying out completely:
SUBJECT V – REACTIVATION CONFIRMED.