Chapter 2 (Part 2)
The Box, the Letter, and the Man in the Photograph
The lock wasn't complicated.
Old. Brass. The kind you'd find on a jewelry box or cigar case—not something meant to guard national secrets. But the weight of the box… the heaviness of it… Ethan knew better than to take it at face value.
Inside, something important waited.
With trembling fingers, he took a flathead screwdriver and pried the lock open. The clasp snapped with a sharp crack, the sound echoing through the still apartment.
He lifted the lid.
The smell hit him first—dust, varnish, and something chemical. A faint trace of alcohol or formaldehyde, maybe. Beneath a velvet flap lay a neatly stacked collection of contents:
A stack of typed reports, bound with twine
A leather-bound notebook, filled with tight, slanted handwriting
A flash drive
And beneath it all… a second vial
Ethan froze.
This vial was different—slightly longer, labeled F-D.01.
The same milky substance. Same seal. But the number—01—was what chilled him.
Was this the original?
And if this was "01"… how many were made?
---
He laid everything out on the table like a surgeon preparing for an autopsy.
First, the reports. Most were dated in the mid-80s, stamped with an insignia he didn't recognize—a triangle within a circle, with three Greek letters under it: Φ-Δ-Σ.
The headings were clinical, sterile:
> SUBJECT 3A – POST-ADMINISTRATION OBSERVATION
Symptoms: Elevated heart rate, tremors, hallucinations within 7 minutes.
Subject became aggressive, required sedation.
Results: Target eliminated within 14 minutes of contact.
Every report followed a similar pattern.
Administer formula. Wait. Observe subject.
Results: Death of target—natural, accidental, or untraceable.
One phrase repeated across the pages:
"No forensic trace. No toxicology match. Formula undetectable post-death."
Ethan's mouth went dry.
Was it poison?
No—too sophisticated. This was precise. Surgical. Almost like… judgment.
---
He reached for the notebook next.
It was his father's handwriting, no question—Ethan would recognize the cramped loops and rigid margins anywhere. He flipped past pages of chemical notations and half-sketched diagrams, until one entry made his blood freeze.
> July 14th
Used the D-variant again. Couldn't sleep. The man at the shelter… he deserved it. What he did to those kids—I read the court file. They let him walk on a technicality.
He smiled at me when I sat next to him.
12 minutes. Seizure. Dead before the ambulance came.
I felt… nothing.
Is that worse?
Ethan sat back.
He had heard nothing about this. Nothing in the news. Nothing in court records.
But his father was a chemistry teacher. A former research scientist. And apparently, part of something bigger.
Something Ethan was now tangled in.
---
The flash drive clicked into his laptop with a soft chime. He hesitated, then opened it.
Only one folder: "Audio Logs"
Inside: six MP3 files, each labeled with a date.
The earliest was from 1985. The latest, last month.
He clicked play on the most recent.
> "If you're listening to this… it means I failed. Or ran out of time. Or both."
His father's voice. Older. Worn. Calm.
> "I tried to dismantle it. I really did. But it's like cutting off the head of a hydra—two more take its place. You want to know the truth? The formula isn't the worst part.
It's what it does to you.
You start out thinking it's justice. Then it becomes habit. Then it becomes necessity."
(Pause. Breathing.)
"Halrick is out there. Still operating. Still choosing who dies. You think I kept the formula to use it?
No.
I kept it to make sure he didn't.
But now… now it's your problem, Ethan."
The audio clicked off.
Ethan leaned back, chest tight.
There was no doubt anymore. His father hadn't just discovered something.
He had helped build it.
---
Someone knocked at the door.
Three sharp taps.
Ethan jolted upright, heart leaping into his throat.
He wasn't expecting anyone.
He crossed to the door and peered through the peephole.
No one there.
He waited. Counted to ten. Opened the door slowly.
Nothing.
Except…
An envelope sat on the doormat.
No postage. No name. Just his address.
He picked it up and opened it.
Inside was a single card, typed in the same old-fashioned style as the hidden letter.
> "The silence isn't permanent."
"We know you have it."
"We'll be in touch."
There was no signature. Just a symbol at the bottom—the triangle within a circle.
The same one from the reports.
Ethan's hand shook.
He looked down the hallway, eyes scanning every shadow. Was someone watching him?
If they knew he had the formula…
He wasn't just a curious son anymore.
He was a target.
---
To be continued in Part 3...