Ares did not touch the notebook for a long time.
When he finally moved it was only to reach for the smaller notebook he carried himself.
He opened it to a blank page and wrote, slowly, in the same careful hand he used for everything that mattered:
47 candidates.
Survival classification pending.
He looked at the last word for a while.
Pending.
Then he set his own notebook aside and opened Hana’s again.
He turned past the animal entries, past the gaps of years, past the first cold summaries of the human trials.
The controlled hand continued, but the tone had shifted.
The candidates were no longer only numbers and hours.
Candidate 001 — male, 31.
Asked whether his wife had been informed.
Candidate 002 — female, 26.
Asked for her daughter.
Candidate 003 — male, 19.
Refused sedation until someone explained what was happening.
Ares read more slowly now.
We were told they volunteered.
They did not all volunteer.
He turned the page.
Candidate 014 — male, 16.
Stable after exposure.
Asked to see his mother.
The next line sat directly beneath it.
His mother was Candidate 015.
Candidate 015 — terminated.
Ares looked at the two numbers for a long time.
014.
015.
He did not write anything.
He only turned the page again.
Candidate 029 — age 14.
Asked if the people outside could hear her.
I told her no.
She asked me to lie again tomorrow.
Candidate 030 — age 12.
Asked for a pencil.
He spent three hours drawing a door.
Ares closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and kept reading.
Five survived.
The list came in pieces, not all at once.
014 — stable.
019 — stable.
027 — stable.
034 — stable.
Then, lower on the page, in a slightly different spacing:
67 — reference subject.
Original specimen released.
Human exposure: unauthorized.
Observer: H.
Ares flipped backward through the earlier entries until he found the first mention of 67.
The reference had been clinical then.
A control.
A still point against which the others were measured.
Now the number carried a different weight, and the wording felt carefully chosen.
He returned to the later pages.
67 asked me today why the others were dying.
I told him we didn’t know.
He said: “You do.”
He pointed at the observation glass.
“You keep looking at me when they die.”
Ares read the line twice.
The pronoun sat there without explanation.
The survivors were not the same.
014 — exceptional strength.
019 — limited levitation under controlled conditions.
027 — reduced respiratory requirement.
034 — accelerated tissue regeneration.
67 — all of the above, amplified.
When asked to demonstrate limits, 67 refused.
That was the line that stayed with Ares longest.
Not the abilities.
The refusal.
He turned the page.
Red Sea ordered the five separated.
No names.
No families.
Five locations.
Five identities.
No common records.
Ares understood then.
It had stopped being a study.
They were being hidden.
The final entries were brief.
014 — TRANSFERRED
019 — TRANSFERRED
027 — TRANSFERRED
034 — TRANSFERRED
67 — MISSING
He stopped.
Beneath the last line, in the same controlled hand:
He was not lost.
The next page had been torn out cleanly.
Only the ragged edge remained.
Ares closed Hana’s notebook and set it down.
He opened his own again.
On the blank page beneath the earlier note he wrote the five numbers in a column:
014
019
027
034
67
He looked at the list for a long moment.
Then he added one more line underneath:
Find them.
Outside, the street remained empty.
Somewhere farther off, something large moved once and went quiet again.
Ares set the notebook aside and reached for the crossbow.
Three soft knocks sounded against the barred stairwell door.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
He did not move.
He did not speak.
He simply raised the crossbow and waited in the dark.
Ares did not move.
The three knocks came again, unhurried, spaced exactly as before.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
His eyes went first to the notebook, then to the small case holding the medicine, and then he was already moving.
The medicine went first.
He wrapped it in cloth and pushed it beneath a loose section of floorboard near the wall.
The notebook followed, slid into the gap behind a broken section of plaster, the opening covered with dust and a piece of fallen wood.
His other belongings went after them the spare bolts, the food, the small knife, everything that could be taken from him if this went wrong.
He left the crossbow where it was, the remaining bolts set beside it, and reached for the only thing he wanted in his hand.
The metal spear.
The same one that had held the cellar door shut through the night.
He stood beside the stairwell door, grip tightening, heart beating faster than he let show on his face.
He lifted the pipe away and lowered the bar slowly.
The hinges gave a small sound as he opened the door a few centimeters, then a little more.
A woman stood on the landing.
White clothing, a white protective mask covering the lower half of her face.
Her eyes didn’t go to his — they went straight to his right hand, to the spear.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she said.
Ares said nothing.
She pushed the door farther open.
Two men stood behind her on the landing, military uniforms in white and gray, RED SEA ARMY printed across their chests.
Ares shifted his weight, ready to close the gap again, but the woman raised one hand without looking back.
“Wait outside.”
Neither soldier argued.
She stepped past him into the room as if it already belonged to her, looked around once, and let her eyes settle on the barred stairwell.
“Smart,” she said.
“You chose the basement as a hiding place.” She pulled the mask down from her face.
“We went to your old camp.
I heard you liked investigating things.
More than the others.”
Ares kept the spear lowered but ready and said nothing.
She studied him for a long moment.
“Do you know the difference between people who want to live,” she said, taking a step closer, “and people who want an answer?”
He didn’t answer that either.
Her eyes moved over his face and stopped.
“You took the medicine?”
His expression didn’t change.
“No,” she said, almost smiling.
“Your eyes tell me you haven’t.”
The room stayed quiet around them both.
“One last question.” Her voice dropped lower.
“How far did you read the book?”
Ares looked at her directly for the first time.
“Far enough,” he said.
“Far enough to know the number mattered.
And that someone was still writing after the rest stopped.” He held her gaze.
“And far enough to know the writer was careful about what she left out, Doctor Hana.”
Something in her posture tightened at the name, though her face gave almost nothing away.
“Everything you just said out loud could get you killed,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“But you also know something Red Sea leadership doesn’t.” Her eyes hardened.
“They stopped seeing people a long time ago.
They saw numbers.
Candidates.
Results.” She touched the edge of the mask hanging at her collar.
“I was trying to survive inside the same system your sister broke wide open the day she walked out of that lab with a mouse in a bag.”
Ares’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing to that either.
“You were part of it,” he said instead.
“Yes.” No hesitation.
“I was.”
She extended one hand.
“Give me the book.”
Ares didn’t move.
“I’ll leave the medicine,” she said.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“You can keep it.”
He watched her open hand and didn’t answer.
“We may see each other again,” she said, lowering it.
“Or you may eventually understand what happened to the ones who didn’t survive.”
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then Ares reached behind him.
She watched his hand the entire time he pulled the notebook free from its hiding place and held it out.
She took it.
Their fingers never touched.
She looked down at the cover, then toward the doorway where the two soldiers still waited, and tucked the notebook under her arm.
At the door she stopped and looked back at him.
“We live in a time where power speaks,” she said, “and the weak listen.
Or they die.”
She put her mask back on and stepped outside.
The soldiers followed.
The door stood open for three seconds before it swung shut.
Ares stood alone, listening to their footsteps fade down the stairwell.
Only when the building had gone fully silent again did he lower the spear.
His eyes moved to the floorboard.
The medicine was still there.
He crouched, pulled the loose board aside, and looked at the small wrapped package.
He picked it up.
For the first time, he held the medicine in his hand.
He did not take it.
Not yet.
Ares did not touch the notebook for a long time.
When he finally moved it was only to reach for the smaller notebook he carried himself.
He opened it to a blank page and wrote, slowly, in the same careful hand he used for everything that mattered:
47 candidates.
Survival classification pending.
He looked at the last word for a while.
Pending.
Then he set his own notebook aside and opened Hana’s again.
He turned past the animal entries, past the gaps of years, past the first cold summaries of the human trials.
The controlled hand continued, but the tone had shifted.
The candidates were no longer only numbers and hours.
Candidate 001 — male, 31.
Asked whether his wife had been informed.
Candidate 002 — female, 26.
Asked for her daughter.
Candidate 003 — male, 19.
Refused sedation until someone explained what was happening.
Ares read more slowly now.
We were told they volunteered.
They did not all volunteer.
He turned the page.
Candidate 014 — male, 16.
Stable after exposure.
Asked to see his mother.
The next line sat directly beneath it.
His mother was Candidate 015.
Candidate 015 — terminated.
Ares looked at the two numbers for a long time.
014.
015.
He did not write anything.
He only turned the page again.
Candidate 029 — age 14.
Asked if the people outside could hear her.
I told her no.
She asked me to lie again tomorrow.
Candidate 030 — age 12.
Asked for a pencil.
He spent three hours drawing a door.
Ares closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and kept reading.
Five survived.
The list came in pieces, not all at once.
014 — stable.
019 — stable.
027 — stable.
034 — stable.
Then, lower on the page, in a slightly different spacing:
67 — reference subject.
Original specimen released.
Human exposure: unauthorized.
Observer: H.
Ares flipped backward through the earlier entries until he found the first mention of 67.
The reference had been clinical then.
A control.
A still point against which the others were measured.
Now the number carried a different weight, and the wording felt carefully chosen.
He returned to the later pages.
67 asked me today why the others were dying.
I told him we didn’t know.
He said: “You do.”
He pointed at the observation glass.
“You keep looking at me when they die.”
Ares read the line twice.
The pronoun sat there without explanation.
The survivors were not the same.
014 — exceptional strength.
019 — limited levitation under controlled conditions.
027 — reduced respiratory requirement.
034 — accelerated tissue regeneration.
67 — all of the above, amplified.
When asked to demonstrate limits, 67 refused.
That was the line that stayed with Ares longest.
Not the abilities.
The refusal.
He turned the page.
Red Sea ordered the five separated.
No names.
No families.
Five locations.
Five identities.
No common records.
Ares understood then.
It had stopped being a study.
They were being hidden.
The final entries were brief.
014 — TRANSFERRED
019 — TRANSFERRED
027 — TRANSFERRED
034 — TRANSFERRED
67 — MISSING
He stopped.
Beneath the last line, in the same controlled hand:
He was not lost.
The next page had been torn out cleanly.
Only the ragged edge remained.
Ares closed Hana’s notebook and set it down.
He opened his own again.
On the blank page beneath the earlier note he wrote the five numbers in a column:
014
019
027
034
67
He looked at the list for a long moment.
Then he added one more line underneath:
Find them.
Outside, the street remained empty.
Somewhere farther off, something large moved once and went quiet again.
Ares set the notebook aside and reached for the crossbow.
Three soft knocks sounded against the barred stairwell door.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
He did not move.
He did not speak.
He simply raised the crossbow and waited in the dark.
Ares did not move.
The three knocks came again, unhurried, spaced exactly as before.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
His eyes went first to the notebook, then to the small case holding the medicine, and then he was already moving.
The medicine went first.
He wrapped it in cloth and pushed it beneath a loose section of floorboard near the wall.
The notebook followed, slid into the gap behind a broken section of plaster, the opening covered with dust and a piece of fallen wood.
His other belongings went after them — the spare bolts, the food, the small knife, everything that could be taken from him if this went wrong.
He left the crossbow where it was, the remaining bolts set beside it, and reached for the only thing he wanted in his hand.
The metal spear.
The same one that had held the cellar door shut through the night.
He stood beside the stairwell door, grip tightening, heart beating faster than he let show on his face.
He lifted the pipe away and lowered the bar slowly.
The hinges gave a small sound as he opened the door a few centimeters, then a little more.
A woman stood on the landing.
White clothing, a white protective mask covering the lower half of her face.
Her eyes didn’t go to his — they went straight to his right hand, to the spear.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she said.
Ares said nothing.
She pushed the door farther open.
Two men stood behind her on the landing, military uniforms in white and gray, RED SEA ARMY printed across their chests.
Ares shifted his weight, ready to close the gap again, but the woman raised one hand without looking back.
“Wait outside.”
Neither soldier argued.
She stepped past him into the room as if it already belonged to her, looked around once, and let her eyes settle on the barred stairwell.
“Smart,” she said.
“You chose the basement as a hiding place.” She pulled the mask down from her face.
“We went to your old camp.
I heard you liked investigating things.
More than the others.”
Ares kept the spear lowered but ready and said nothing.
She studied him for a long moment.
“Do you know the difference between people who want to live,” she said, taking a step closer, “and people who want an answer?”
He didn’t answer that either.
Her eyes moved over his face and stopped.
“You took the medicine?”
His expression didn’t change.
“No,” she said, almost smiling.
“Your eyes tell me you haven’t.”
The room stayed quiet around them both.
“One last question.” Her voice dropped lower.
“How far did you read the book?”
Ares looked at her directly for the first time.
“Far enough,” he said.
“Far enough to know the number mattered.
And that someone was still writing after the rest stopped.” He held her gaze.
“And far enough to know the writer was careful about what she left out, Doctor Hana.”
Something in her posture tightened at the name, though her face gave almost nothing away.
“Everything you just said out loud could get you killed,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“But you also know something Red Sea leadership doesn’t.” Her eyes hardened.
“They stopped seeing people a long time ago.
They saw numbers.
Candidates.
Results.” She touched the edge of the mask hanging at her collar.
“I was trying to survive inside the same system my sister broke wide open the day she walked out of that lab with a mouse in a bag.”
Ares’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing to that either.
“You were part of it,” he said instead.
“Yes.” No hesitation.
“I was.”
She extended one hand.
“Give me the book.”
Ares didn’t move.
“I’ll leave the medicine,” she said.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“You can keep it.”
He watched her open hand and didn’t answer.
“We may see each other again,” she said, lowering it.
“Or you may eventually understand what happened to the ones who didn’t survive.”
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then Ares reached behind him.
She watched his hand the entire time he pulled the notebook free from its hiding place and held it out.
She took it.
Their fingers never touched.
She looked down at the cover, then toward the doorway where the two soldiers still waited, and tucked the notebook under her arm.
At the door she stopped and looked back at him.
“We live in a time where power speaks,” she said, “and the weak listen.
Or they die.”
She put her mask back on and stepped outside.
The soldiers followed.
The door stood open for three seconds before it swung shut.
Ares stood alone, listening to their footsteps fade down the stairwell.
Only when the building had gone fully silent again did he lower the spear.
His eyes moved to the floorboard.
The medicine was still there.
He crouched, pulled the loose board aside, and looked at the small wrapped package.
He picked it up.
For the first time, he held the medicine in his hand.
He did not take it.
Not yet.