The lock hadn't budged.
Elias paced the perimeter of the lab, phone flashlight casting long, skeletal shadows across the walls.
No signal. No Wi-Fi. No ventilation.
Just that soundless hum from the center of the room—like the machine was breathing in its sleep.
> "It remembers you."
That voice. It hadn't been his imagination. It was too clear, too… intimate. Like someone whispering directly into the base of his skull.
He circled the Thanaton Unit. The machine looked dead, but close up, he could see a faint pulse of blue light under the console—something was still awake inside. He didn't dare touch it.
Instead, he reached for the old desk shoved into the corner. Layers of dust peeled up like skin. Underneath the paper stacks and film canisters was a notebook, leather-bound and brittle with age.
Inside: handwritten logs.
---
> Subject 12-A
"Eyes open for 6.4 seconds post-clinical death. Reported seeing 'her' again."
Soul Index: 38.2
Containment unstable. Consciousness fragmented.
Terminated.
---
> Subject 15-F
"Began repeating unknown language. Blood turned to sludge. Eye vessels burst simultaneously."
Soul Index: 43.1
Containment failed. Remains incinerated.
They don't go quietly.
---
Elias stopped reading. A chill slid down his spine.
He turned another page and froze.
> Subject 26-E: Elias Reyne
Status: [REDACTED]
Soul Index: 44.6
Result: INCONCLUSIVE
Logged: [unreadable date]
His throat tightened.
That was his name.
Same spelling. Same surname.
But the test logs dated back to the early 1940s. That couldn't be right. He was twenty-one. Born in 50s.
He stared at the paper for a long time, trying to find a rational explanation—common name, clerical error, deepfake. But something in his gut twisted. This wasn't a coincidence.
The machine thrummed again—louder this time. Not mechanical. Organic. Like a heartbeat echoing through rusted lungs.
And then came the screaming.
---
Muffled. Above him. From somewhere past the ceiling tiles.
Elias ran to the door, slamming on it.
"HELLO? SOMEBODY?!"
The metal didn't budge—but the lights flickered, and with a loud hiss, the door unlocked itself. No prompt. No reason.
He staggered out, barely noticing the hallway light now tinged a sickly green.
And at the end of the corridor—framed by fluorescent flickers—stood his roommate, Kiran.
"Kiran?" Elias's voice cracked. "What are you doing here?"
Kiran didn't answer.
His face was pale, soaked with sweat. He was staring—no, trembling—at Elias's chest.
"I heard you," Kiran said, his voice flat. "Screaming in my head. Like you were inside me."
Elias took a step back.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
But Kiran wasn't looking at him anymore. His gaze had drifted over Elias's shoulder.
To the machine room behind him.
"It's awake," Kiran whispered. "It knows we're here."
---