The hallway stretched ahead, shadowed and narrow, a mirror of the others I'd passed through. My fingers clutched the keycard like a lifeline, the edges pressing into my palm as I marched forward, the small sign above the door growing clearer with each step: Manuscripts and Letters.

The faint hum of the lights buzzed in my ears, amplified by the oppressive silence surrounding me. I reached the door and held my breath, swiping the card across the reader.

Relief flooded me when I heard the soft click of the lock disengaging. I pushed the door open cautiously, stepping inside and allowing it to close gently behind me.

This room was brighter than the last, its air lighter but no less foreboding. Shelves lined the walls, meticulously organized, each one stacked with neat rows of sealed envelopes and bound documents.

My eyes scanned the labels on the shelves: Correspondence, Financial Records, Signed Agreements. A large desk dominated the center of the room, its surface covered in folders and leather-bound ledgers.

My movements had grown frantic long before but now the urgency seemed to worsen with each second passed. I looked around trying to figure out what to look at first. I approached one of the shelves labeled Letters: Project Beta Testers.

I slid an envelope from the stack and carefully pried it open. Inside was a series of typed letters, each bearing the official NPC seal at the top. The name at the bottom of every letter caught my eye immediately: Director of Beta Operations, Dr. Nira Knowles

The first letter was short but damning:

To C.Costell,

Enclosed is your quarterly stipend for ensuring the continued safety and discretion of our operations within your jurisdiction. Your cooperation has been noted and greatly appreciated.

Sincerely,
Director, NPC Beta Operations Dr.N.K

____________________________________________________________________________

My stomach twisted as I pulled another from the pile. The words grew more explicit as the correspondence continued—details of experiments, trial phases, and assurances that the mayor's involvement would remain off the record.

The amounts listed in the letters were staggering, more money than I could have imagined one person needing in one lifetime. I folded the paper just slightly enough to fit in my pocket. I might not be able to take any pictures for Carson, but I can bring him something, hopefully, if I get out of here after all of this.

I set the papers down and turned toward the desk, its drawers slightly ajar as if someone had rifled through them recently. My hand trembled as I tugged at one, revealing more letters, their edges yellowed with age. My eyes skimmed their headings, my pulse quickening when I saw familiar names.

The first name hit me like a blow: Robert wood. My grandfather.

The letter was addressed to him and dated almost two decades ago. The handwriting was tight and deliberate, signed by James himself.

____________________________________________________________________________

To Robert Wood,

Mr. Wood, I've warned you before to leave these matters alone. You are meddling in things that cannot be undone, and you risk not only yourself but everyone you care about. Let this go. For their sake.

James Thomas.

___________________________________________________________________________

A sharp breath escaped me as I processed his words. Shocked at the knowledge James had spoken with one of my family members at some point. I rifled through the stack and found another, this time written by my grandfather:

____________________________________________________________________________

Mr. Thomas,

I cannot and will not turn away. My mother and father deserved better than to be another casualty of this madness. If you know something—anything—you owe it to my family to tell me.

Sincerely,

Robert Wood.

_________________________________________________________________________

My hands trembled as I read it over and over again. There was one more letter, dated only days after the last. It bore James's unmistakable script again:

_________________________________________________________________________

To Robert Wood,

You've pushed too far. They're watching you now, and there's nothing more I can do to help you. I ask you again, before it's too late. For Lydia's sake, for her child's sake—please, Robert, let this go.

James Thomas

___________________________________________________________________________

Lydia. My mother. My grandfather had written to James about her, and the weight of her name on the page crushed me like a landslide. The room spun as I clutched the paper to my chest, my breath shallow and unsteady.

For her child's sake. That child was me. He'd been warning my grandfather to stay away, not for himself but for me. My hands clenched the fragile paper as anger and confusion warred within me.

My faith in him—the small flicker of trust I'd clung to—was beginning to waver under the weight of this new information.

The jacket in the other room. These letters.

I turned sharply, forcing the papers back into their folders and shoving them away. My chest heaved as I tried to steady myself, clutching the desk for balance.

I had to move. I couldn't stay here, not with the suffocating realization closing in on me like a noose.

Swiping a hand across my face, I forced myself back toward the door, one trembling step at a time. There were still two more hallways to search, but the weight of what I'd just uncovered pressed heavily against my chest, threatening to crush me.

I knew I didn't have time, but I found my body didn't seem to care as my vision blurred and whirled around in front of me. I leaned against the hallway wall and rested for a second I didn't have to spare. I pressed my back against the cold stone wall of the hallway, shutting my eyes tightly.

My thoughts refused to untangle themselves, looping endlessly around my mind.

I forced myself to count, each number grounding me back into the present. One. Two. Three. My pulse slowed, and I loosened my grip on the wall. I couldn't afford to lose it now, not when I was still in the middle of this place.

I felt for the letter in my damp clothes and figured this alone would not satisfy Carson. It was evidence, damning evidence, but one letter wouldn't be enough to justify the risk I'd taken to get down here.

There were two doors left. One, I assumed, had a similar swipe mechanism and I needed to make sure I got into all the rooms I could easily access in case I still couldn't figure out the code in the end.

My focus sharpened as I approached the next hallway. To my left, the faint glow of another sign came into view: Population.

I hesitated for only a moment before heading down the passage, my shoes quiet against the polished floor. I tightened my grip on the keycard, praying it would work again, though a part of me dreaded what I might uncover inside after the previous two had nearly sent me to my knees in emotion.

The door to Population was like the others, unassuming, with a small, dark window set into its frame. I swiped the card, and the lock disengaged with a soft beep.

Inside, the room was colder, the sterile chill prickling against my skin. The shelves were filled with binders, folders, and file boxes, each labeled with meticulous precision. A row of filing cabinets lined the far wall, their drawers slightly ajar.

My eyes scanned the labels: Demographics, Census Records, Mortality Logs.

The last one stopped me cold. Mortality Logs.

I pulled open the cabinet drawer and rifled through the files, having to go back as almost as far as they started keeping the records, quickly finding what I feared most: a thick folder labeled, Vaccine X Trial, 1930.

I opened it, revealing pages of neatly typed names, dates, and causes of death. The sheer volume of names was staggering, the dates all within a two-year period.

There were notes in the margins, initials of approval for certain records, and phrases like Experiment 3–Vaccine X Outcomes.

They documented it all.

My stomach turned as I skimmed the pages. There were hundreds of names, all tied to the so-called vaccine that had torn through New Gullies and its people.

The causes of death were all connected to the vaccine as the reason but they all technically died of different things.

Population Mortality Records: Testing Period 1-6 Vaccine X Trials (Dates Redacted)

Victor Hall: Cause of Death—Systemic Organ Failure.

Margaret Allen: Cause of Death—Neurological Decline.

Eliza Morris: Cause of Death—Cardiac Arrest (Unexplained).

Name Unknown: Cause of Death—Experiment Termination.

The words blurred before me as my chest tightened. The sheer number of names was staggering, each marked with a cold, clinical explanation—or no explanation at all.

Each line, each entry, represented a life lost. A name, a cause of death, and the detached notes of experimentation. The sheer number of them blurred together, but my eyes caught on the worst ones.

I swallowed hard and slipped one of the pages into my pocket alongside the letter. I wasn't sure how much proof Carson would need, but I'd be damned if I left this place with nothing. The weight of what I'd just read settled into my chest, but I couldn't stop. There was still more to uncover, and I wasn't ready to leave yet.

I slid the folder back into the cabinet and turned to the drawer labeled Census. If the mortality logs showed how many people had died, the census records would show who had lived—and what had changed. My fingers fumbled with the handle as I pulled the drawer open, the metal creaking like it was warning me to stop.

The files were neat, their tabs labeled by decade. I reached for the one marked 1930, my breath catching as I flipped it open. Pages and pages of names stared back at me, inked neatly in tight rows. Each entry listed households, their members, and occupations.

I scanned through the names, tracing the entries with trembling fingers. By 1925, New Gullies had been thriving. Family after family, each line filled with promise. But as I flipped through to the 1935 records, the lists became shorter. Entire sections were blank, households reduced to a single person—or none at all.

I turned back to 1930, my eyes landing on a familiar name: Cavil Costell. His household was listed as living on Willow Lane with his wife, Maude, and their daughter, Pretoria.

But where was James?

I kept skimming the page, finding nothing under the Costell household about him. My thoughts scrambled. They were siblings—why wouldn't he be listed there? Then it hit me. James and Pretoria didn't share a last name. I forced my breathing to slow and moved further down the list.

There were alot of James' but not a lot of families with the last name Thomas. My index finger traced the page as it landed on a man who would have been twenty - three. James...Costell?

My eyes lingered on the name in the census entry: James Costell. It didn't fit.

James's name wasn't Costell anymore—it was Thomas. Everyone called him Mr. Thomas, like it had always been his name. Why would he change it?

My pulse thrummed in my ears as my thoughts began to race. People didn't just shed their names like old clothes unless they had a reason.

Being over a hundred years old would be a very good reason to me...

He was listed separately, living in a household with one other person whose last name was Thomas, but the first name had been blacked out. A dark, heavy smear obscured the letters completely, making it impossible to read.

My pulse quickened as I stared at the entry. The only information that remained was James's occupation, which was simply listed as Farmer.

A farmer? James? The thought didn't fit. He was always so composed, so deliberate. The James I knew didn't seem like the kind of man who'd spent his days tilling soil. Or maybe I didn't know him at all.

The blacked-out name gnawed at me. Who had he been living with and why would someone go through the effort to erase them from the record?

I stared at the census records for a moment longer, letting the questions swirl in my mind before snapping the folder shut. My head was spinning, and I needed answers, but I didn't have time to linger. I placed the census file back in the drawer, careful to leave everything as I'd found it, and stepped away.

My hand brushed against the papers in my pocket. They felt heavier now, like they carried not just evidence but the weight of what I'd just learned. My chest tightened as I turned toward the door, the cold air biting at my skin.

There was one hallway left. One more door to open.

I placed the keycard back into my pocket knowing I no longer had any use for it past this point.

The lights flickered above me as more sounds chimed in from the humming of the lights, I hurried even more just running to the next door at this point feeling like my time was centrally almost up.