The photos lay scattered on the coffee table like pieces of a broken mirror—images Ethan had worked his entire adult life to erase. Myra sat beside him, her posture stiff, while Connor shifted nervously in the leather chair, wringing his hands as if waiting for permission to breathe.
Ethan stared at one of the black-and-white prints. It showed the ruins of an old orphanage. Familiar stone archways, scorched timber beams, and a small rusted swing set still standing out back.
"St. Briar's," he muttered.
Myra glanced at him. "Is that where you grew up?"
Ethan gave a slow nod. "Part of it. When the state got tired of moving me around, they dumped me there. Until the fire."
Connor leaned in. "That wasn't an accident, was it?"
"No." Ethan's voice dropped, as cold and precise as a scalpel. "I always suspected it wasn't. But the case was buried. No one cared what happened to a building full of nobodies."
He picked up another photo—one of a man's blurred face, taken from what looked like a grainy security camera still. Salt-and-pepper hair, a sharp jaw, and eyes that seemed devoid of anything remotely human.
"Who is this?" Ethan asked.
"Name's Everett Shaw," Connor said. "That's the alias he used recently. But he has half a dozen identities. Government records say he died twelve years ago."
Ethan's gaze sharpened. "He didn't."
"No. He's alive. And he's watching you."
Ethan was silent. The name triggered a memory he hadn't allowed himself to revisit in years—crimson flames, coughing children, a heavy door that wouldn't open, and someone walking away through the fire… calm, untouched.
"I was eleven," Ethan said quietly. "Woke up to smoke. Screaming. The fire alarms had been disabled. Every adult in the building was gone. Locked doors. No exits. It was a miracle I got out."
Myra reached for his hand, gripping it gently.
"You think this man started it?" she asked.
"I don't think," Ethan said. "I know."
Connor swallowed. "He's looking for something, Ethan. And I think it has to do with the Langfords. With you."
That caught Myra's attention. "What do you mean?"
Connor fished another envelope from his bag and pulled out a map. It showed overlapping circles of property ownership, shadow companies, and acquisition trails—all connected by one common thread: Alexander Langford.
"This guy's not just some arsonist," Connor continued. "He's part of something big. Like… cold war-era black book big. I found out he used to run off-the-record operations tied to experimental intelligence research—recruitment, manipulation, even psychological conditioning in children."
Ethan's jaw clenched. "Project Helix."
Connor nodded, startled. "You've heard of it?"
"Lived through it," Ethan said darkly.
The room went dead quiet.
"I thought it was just a theory," Myra whispered. "Some conspiracy people talked about in fringe podcasts."
Ethan turned to her, and for the first time, the calculating confidence gave way to something heavier.
"They tested things on us. Drugs. Simulations. Indoctrination tactics. They said it was for 'development of the elite mind.' But it was cruelty in the name of science. And Shaw—" he tapped the photo, "—was one of the architects."
"Why now?" Myra asked. "Why show up again after all these years?"
"Because I wasn't supposed to survive," Ethan said. "And now I'm building an empire that rivals the very systems he used to control. Maybe that's a threat. Or maybe…" he trailed off, staring at a red mark on the map.
"What's that?" Connor asked, pointing to it.
Ethan narrowed his eyes. "That's not just any Langford property. That's the Langford Legacy Vault."
Myra's brow furrowed. "Wait—my grandfather never spoke about any vault."
"He wouldn't have," Ethan replied. "Only the successor was ever told about it. And he chose me—before anyone else even knew."
He stood abruptly, crossing the room to a locked cabinet. Inside it was a secured tablet, biometric-locked. He scanned his fingerprint, then his retina. A click, and the screen came to life.
Myra stood beside him. "You've been tracking him this whole time?"
"I didn't know it was him until today," Ethan said. "But I knew someone was orchestrating something from the shadows."
On the screen appeared a file: Subject 9-13: Shaw, Everett.
The dossier was chilling—medical reports, behavioral experiments, funding approvals, psychological test results, and a memo:
"Subjects exceeding projected mental acuity will be recycled or removed. Target: Ethan Cross. Status: Pending Removal."
"He marked me for death a long time ago," Ethan said.
Connor sat back, stunned. "So… what happens now?"
Ethan turned the screen off, the light vanishing from his face along with the glow. "Now? We stop running. If Shaw wants me in the open—fine. I'll step into the light."
He looked at Myra.
"But if he touches you or anyone close to me, I'll burn every last remnant of his shadow operation to ash."
Myra nodded slowly. "Then I'll stand with you."
Connor cleared his throat. "So uh… does that mean I can stay here for a while? Just until—"
"No," Ethan cut in.
Connor paled.
"But I'll give you protection. You helped me today, even if you didn't mean to. I don't forget that."
Connor let out a shaky breath of relief.
Ethan turned to Myra, eyes resolute. "We need to get to the Langford Vault. Whatever your grandfather left there—it's the next piece of the puzzle."
Myra nodded. "Then we find it. Together."
Ethan looked toward the horizon, the sun rising slowly over the water like a slow countdown to war.
The past hadn't just returned—it had declared war.
And Ethan Cross was done playing defense.