The hallway lights buzzed low, casting a yellowish tint over the concrete walls. Jessi stormed out of the quarantine corridor, her hoodie pulled tight around her as if it could shield her from the chill crawling up her spine.
Jules was already there, leaning casually against the opposite wall, arms folded. Waiting.
Jessi startled.
"Jesus," she muttered. "You scared me."
"Good," Jules said, voice calm and precise. "Means you're still paying attention."
Jessi frowned, breath quick. "You were eavesdropping?"
"I was watching your face." Jules straightened. "The blood drained from it around the time he called this a 'second chance.' You want to tell me what just happened in there?"
Jessi looked away, pressing her knuckles to her lips for a beat before answering.
"He's not the same."
"Of course he's not. None of us are."
"No, I mean—" Jessi shook her head. "He's trying too hard. Like he was rehearsing how to win me over. It felt… manipulative. Like he was using our past to distract me."
Jules nodded once. "He did distract you. You almost didn't ask about the brother."
"I did ask. Twice."
"And did you get a straight answer?"
Jessi's jaw tightened. "No."
Jules exhaled through her nose, then stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Josh thinks your friend might've been turned. If that's true, this—" she gestured back toward the sealed unit "—isn't just about containment anymore. It's about surveillance."
Jessi swallowed.
"He said something weird," she added quietly. "When I pressed him. He said, 'I don't think you want to know.'"
Jules' brows lifted slightly. "That's not something a survivor says when they lost someone. That's what someone says when they're hiding something."
"Or protecting someone."
Jules met her eyes. "Or planning something."
They stood in silence for a moment, both listening to the hum of the generators and the low murmur of rainfall against the glass dome above.
"I don't know what to believe," Jessi whispered.
"You don't have to," Jules said. "Just keep your eyes open. You know him better than anyone here. That makes you our best warning system."
Jessi nodded slowly. "What if he's still in there? The real Ty."
"Then he'll show us," Jules said. "One way or another."
And together, they walked back toward the core — leaving the sealed glass cell behind them glowing in sterile, electric white.
--
Josh sat alone at the main console, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other nursing a mug of lukewarm coffee. The storm had dulled to a faint percussion on the roof — distant thunder rolling like a warning still too far to heed.
The bank of monitors blinked quietly in front of him, rotating through camera feeds: rooftop, chicken coop, hydroponics bay, water filtration, med station…
Then: quarantine.
Ty sat on the cot, his back to the wall, head bowed like he was praying. He hadn't moved much in the last hour.
Josh's finger hovered near the console's infrared filter switch. A flick, and the thermal overlay came into view.
Ty was sweating.
A lot.
Josh frowned.
He leaned in and adjusted the audio sensitivity.
Soft shuffling.
Then Ty stood. Slow. Intentional. Not the fidgeting of a restless patient — the deliberate rhythm of someone testing limits.
Ty approached the plexiglass wall.
He moved close to the sealed console access port built into the wall — not functional from the inside, but present. Legacy design.
He crouched.
Josh narrowed his eyes.
Ty tilted his head, studying the screws.
Then he reached into his thermal blanket and pulled something small and shiny out of the hem.
A nail.
Where the hell did he get a nail?
Ty pressed it to the edge of the access panel and began to quietly scrape, testing pressure points. Not forcing — learning.
Josh straightened in his chair, pulse beginning to rise.
Okay. That's not nothing.
Ty paused — looked up at the tiny black lens above the door.
He stared directly into it.
Josh froze.
Ty smiled.
It wasn't big. It wasn't even threatening. Just… knowing.
A subtle smirk that said: I see you. Now what are you going to do?
Josh snapped off the audio and bolted from the chair.