Olivia's POV
The morning we were supposed to meet at Luke's, I couldn't sit still.
There was something sharp in the air—like electricity before a storm, a crackling tension under my skin. Not quite fear. Not quite excitement. Just… knowing. Something big was coming. And we couldn't outrun it anymore.
Sebastian drove us in silence, his hand resting near mine on the gearshift. Our fingers brushed sometimes—accidentally on purpose. I didn't pull away. Neither did he. It was like he needed that touch to stay grounded, to keep from drifting off into whatever storm waited ahead.
Eve was pacing on the porch when we arrived, arms wound tight around herself like she could hold her ribs in place if she just squeezed hard enough. Luke leaned against the doorframe, dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in days as if he was haunted by something.
The address—H.79 Palomowa Beach, South 3789 Paradise Island—sat like a ghost in the middle of the table, scrawled on a crumpled scrap of paper. Sebastian stared at it like it might vanish if he blinked too fast.
When I pulled up an old photo of the beach house on my phone, he went still. Entirely still. Like the air had been punched out of his lungs.
"I know this place," he whispered, voice thin and scraped raw. His fingers brushed the screen, slow and reverent. "Mom used to take us here Before… "
His voice cracked.
"It.. Its the beach house." and he looked towards me and I knew it was the same beach house he told me about
Eve wrapped her arms tighter. "I don't remember it. Just… flashes. Bits of stuff. Your stories."
"You were little," Sebastian murmured. "But it was real. You loved it there."
He didn't say it like a memory. He said it like a prayer.
"We need to go," I said, quietly but firmly. "Whatever's there—we need to see it."
His hand found mine beneath the table, fingers curling tight.
"After school Friday," he said. "We leave."
Saturday
The sky was an endless sheet of gray as Luke's old SUV rattled down the coast highway. Eve sat up front, blasting chaotic music. Luke was silent his behaviour for last some days is very different I tried asking him but he just ignored it . Sebastian and I were in the back, our knees touching, his head tipped against the window.
He was quiet. Too quiet.
Every so often, his hand would find mine—his thumb brushing over my knuckles, like he needed proof I was still there. I didn't say anything. I just held on tighter.
The farther we drove, the more he sank into silence. The memories were catching up.
When we finally pulled into the overgrown drive, the house stood crooked and weather-beaten, half-eaten by salt and time. The porch sagged like it remembered joy and didn't know what to do with it anymore.
Sebastian climbed out slowly, eyes fixed on the house. Like it was a wound.
"I used to race Eve down that porch," he said quietly, fingers trailing along the railing. "Mom sat right there. With iced tea. She laughed."
Eve stood beside him, hugging herself. "I wish I remembered."
"You were happy here," he said. "I promise."
He turned to me, and the look in his eyes… it hit like a wave. Grief, hope, dread, all tangled together.
I stepped forward, took his hand. "Then let's find what she left behind."
The house creaked when we stepped in, like it was waking from a long, bitter sleep. Dust shimmered in the slats of fading light. Sheets draped over furniture like ghosts.
Sebastian moved through the rooms slowly, touching everything—walls, doorframes, even the dented edge of a cabinet. Like he was trying to remember not just the place, but who he used to be here.
We split up to search. Luke and Eve headed to the back. I stayed close to Sebastian.
He led me into a small room, quiet and stale. The air was heavier here. More still.
The mattress had collapsed inward. The corners of the room looked like they hadn't been touched in a decade.
But one floorboard caught Sebastian's eye. It didn't match the rest.
He knelt and tapped it. Hollow.
"Help me with this."
Together, we pried the board up. It gave with a crack, and underneath it—dusty and water-damaged—was a file. Thick. Faded. Dangerous.
Sebastian stared at it like it might explode.
I put my hand on his. "We open it together."
He nodded. We pulled it out.
Inside were pages. Neat columns of names—each with an age beside it. Most were between five and eight. There were notes in tight, clinical handwriting:
"Subject Potential."
"Test Status: Pending."
"Extracted."
"Discarded."
And then… our names.
Patterson, Sebastian – Age 6
Trauma Indicator: Severe
Parental Abuse: Confirmed
Response to Isolation: Submissive
Echo Suitability: Under Evaluation
My breath stopped. I couldn't feel my fingers.
"What the hell…" I whispered.
SUBJECT: Sebastian J. Patterson
Age: 6–10
Project ECHO: Phase I – Early Childhood Observation
Lead Researcher: Dr. James Patterson
My breath caught.
His own father had written this.
The words were cold. Scientific. Like they weren't describing a little boy—but something being tested.
Symptoms Noted:
– Trouble managing emotions (especially anger and fear)
– Difficulty forming emotional bonds with parents
– Always on edge, even in calm situations
– Rarely smiled or showed strong feelings
– Slow to trust, especially adults
– Sometimes acted like he wasn't really present—zoning out completely
History of Trauma:
– Ongoing physical abuse by father
– Verbal insults meant to tear down self-worth
– Constant fear at home due to yelling, broken objects, and threats
– No protection from mother, who stayed distant and silent
– Spent most of his time alone or clinging to his sister Eve
– Showed signs of deep sadness and possible thoughts of self-harm (would stop eating or speaking after fights)
Incident (Age 7):
"Locked himself in the bathroom for three hours after a violent outburst. No crying. No speaking. Didn't talk again for two full days."
I pressed a hand to my chest. It hurt.
Not the words.
But the way they didn't even sound shocked.
Like this was normal.
Psychological Summary:
– Likely early signs of complex PTSD
– Learned to hide his feelings to survive
– Became ashamed when anyone tried to comfort him
– Believed everything was his fault
– May struggle in the future with love, relationships, and asking for help
– Researchers suggested wiping parts of his memory if he got too emotionally attached
At the very bottom, like a whisper:
"Subject shows deep empathy and memory strength. Could be valuable for future resilience experiments. Suggest testing emotional responses in close relationships."
That was it.
Nothing after age ten.
Nothing after his mother left.
I stared at the pages. My hands were shaking.
He was just a boy.
They treated him like a case study.
"Sebastian…" I whispered.
He was sitting in the corner now, his arms wrapped around his knees. Silent.
"I didn't want you to find that," he said. His voice was hollow. Tired. "I didn't want you to know who I was back then."
I looked at him.
"You were a little boy," I said gently. "And they studied you like you were broken instead of helping you heal."
He didn't move.
"They watched you suffer and called it research," I said, stepping closer. "You weren't the problem, Sebastian. They were."
"They didn't care if it destroyed me," he said. "They just wanted to see what would happen."
I crouched beside him. "You survived all of it."
But when we turned the page my breath stopped
My fingers had barely stopped shaking when I saw it.
Tucked behind Sebastian's file, there was another. Thinner. Neater. But somehow, it chilled me more.
SUBJECT: Price, Olivia
Age: 6
Project ECHO – Child Suitability Evaluation
Researcher Access: Level 2 Only
I stared at my name like it didn't belong to me.
But it did.
Observed Symptoms:
– High emotional compliance (responds quickly to adult commands, avoids conflict)
– Signs of emotional suppression (rarely cries, keeps distress hidden)
– Detachment from primary caregivers
– People-pleasing behaviors present
– Hyper-awareness of adult moods
– Hesitates before speaking—possibly fear of disapproval
Trauma Noted:
– Chronic neglect from both parents
– Emotional abandonment (lack of affection, validation, or presence)
– Repeated exposure to high-pressure expectations without support
– Left alone for extended periods, both physically and emotionally
– Rewarded for silence and composure; punished—directly or indirectly—for emotion
Psychological Summary:
– Early signs of inhibited attachment disorder
– Shows internalized anxiety masked by perfectionism
– Likely to develop chronic self-blame, emotional repression, and identity confusion
– At risk for dissociative coping mechanisms in later life
– Adapts quickly to toxic environments in order to survive
– Does not vocalize needs. Possibly believes she is a burden
At the bottom, just like Sebastian's, were the lines that didn't feel like they belonged in a child's file.
"Compliance rating: HIGH.
Emotional regulation suitable for testing under Project ECHO parameters.
Recommend further observation under indirect stress conditions."
I couldn't breathe.
They were watching me.
Even back then.
The words blurred.
The file slipped from my fingers and hit the old wooden boards with a sound too loud in a room so silent.
"What did you find?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. I just looked at him—and something in my face must've said enough.
He reached for the file, opened it, and I saw the moment it registered. His brows knit together. His jaw clenched.
He exhaled, slow and bitter.
"They had their eyes on you too," he said, voice low. "Even back then."
My throat was raw. "I thought it was just me… being me. Quiet. Polite. Good. I didn't think anyone noticed."
"They noticed," he said. "Just not the way they were supposed to."
I blinked fast, trying to stop the tears. "They didn't hit me," I whispered. "Not like—like yours did. But they… disappeared. While still sitting at the same table. While calling it love."
Sebastian didn't flinch. His eyes softened, but his voice didn't coddle. It stayed steady. Real.
"Neglect doesn't leave bruises on your skin," he said. "But it rewires your brain just the same."
I looked at him. "It's like I was built to not need anything."
"They taught you to bury your needs before you ever had a chance to name them."
That broke something in me.
A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. And when he reached up to brush it away, it wasn't gentle. It was careful. Like I was something fragile—but not weak.
Like someone who'd finally cracked open… and deserved to be held, not fixed.
We just sat there for a moment—me on the floor, him crouched beside me, two files sprawled out like pieces of evidence in some case no one ever tried.
Two kids no one ever chose to save.
Two lives tracked like data.
Two ghosts learning to be real.
Luke and Eve appeared in the doorway. Luke crossed over and took the file, flipping through it fast, then slower.
Eve's voice broke the silence. "These are kids. They kept files on kids."
Sebastian said nothing. He just kept staring into the floor like it might swallow him.
Eve knelt beside us, pale and shaken. "This is it. This is proof."
Luke's voice was grim. "We take all of it. Figure out who did this. Why."
When he finally looked up, his voice cracked like something inside him had just splintered.
"They didn't just study me."
His eyes met mine. Haunted. Shattered.
"They studied us."
For a second, the words didn't register. But then I saw it—our names, printed side by side. Our ages. Our traumas cataloged like lab notes. And suddenly, everything in me went cold.
"We were experiments," he whispered, voice raw. "Subjects."
Something inside my chest twisted so hard it felt like breaking. I couldn't stop myself—I crawled toward him, grabbed his face in my hands like I could ground him, keep him from disappearing into that awful truth.
"They used us," I said, barely breathing. "Watched us grow up in pain. Labeled our wounds like data points."
His jaw clenched, and a tear slipped down his cheek—but he didn't look away.
"They called it observation," he muttered. "But it was manipulation. My father—Its was my father's experiment"
"And my parents," I said, the words tasting like ash. "They let it happen."
I pressed my forehead against his, and our breathing synced, quiet and trembling.
"You're not some file, Sebastian," I whispered. "You're not numbers and symptoms and damage. Neither am I. We're not what they made us."
His arms came around me like he needed something real to hold onto. "They reduced us to patterns. But they never got to see this. You and me."
"We are not their outcome," I said fiercely.
Outside—something snapped.
A branch. A crunch.
Luke was at the window instantly, his voice sharp. "Someone's out there."
Sebastian tensed, arms tightening around the file like it might be torn from him.
Eve yanked the door open. "Move. Now."
The wind screamed through the trees. The air felt too still, too watchful. And then I saw it—just past the tree line. A shadow. Standing completely still. Watching us.
Whoever it was didn't flinch. Didn't run.
And neither did we—not until we had to.
We grabbed what we could and bolted into the dark, into the wind and cold and mystery. Because whatever truth we had just uncovered…
Someone didn't want us to know it.
And they weren't done watching.