Mrs.
Park sat on the sofa, her hands resting quietly on her knees.
A tin box rested on the coffee table—old, its corners worn white, its latch tarnished with rust.
She didn’t speak.
Miles Vance didn’t rush her.
Through the windowpane, the muffled hum of traffic drifted inside, low and indistinct.
After a long moment, Mrs.
Park reached out and opened the tin box.
*Click.*
Inside lay a letter with yellowed edges, a voice recorder, and an ID photo.
She handed the letter to Miles.
“That’s his handwriting.”
Miles took it.
The paper was thin, covered in Korean characters he couldn’t read.
Yet he could tell the writer had been in a rush.
The strokes were hasty and scribbled, with ink smudged in several spots as if soaked by water.
“His name was Ji-ho Park,” Mrs.
Park said, her voice flat.
“Vought said he died in a laboratory accident. They gave me a sum of money… and a box of ashes.”
She paused.
“The ashes weren’t his.”
Miles looked up.
“The DNA test took three months,” Mrs.
Park said, her fingers tracing the edge of the tin box.
“I went to the best lab in Korea. The result was a zero match.”
Silence descended on the room.
The curtains weren’t fully drawn, letting in a single shaft of light that cut a bright line through the dimness.
“Three years. I’ve been investigating for three years.” She looked at Miles.
“This box was the last thing Ji-ho sent out. Inside were his journal, work logs, and that voice recorder.”
Miles picked up the voice recorder.
Its plastic shell felt light in his hand.
“I’ve listened to it many times,” Mrs.
Park said.
“You only need to hear it once.”
She pressed play.
Heavy, ragged breathing came from the speaker.
Then a voice spoke—a young man’s, thick with a Korean accent.
“Mom… I might not be coming back.”
A pause.
“They want me to sign a non-disclosure agreement. I won’t sign it. Compound V… wasn’t invented.”
The breathing grew heavier, like someone who had just finished a sprint.
“It was *discovered*. It’s been there all along. The Creator… is still alive.”
The recording ended.
Miles put the recorder down.
“When did you receive this?”
“A week before he died.”
Miles placed the recorder back into the tin box.
“I need to go to Vermont.”
***
Vermont.
The Green Mountains.
Miles rented a car and drove along the winding mountain highway for two hours.
The GPS lost signal at the third fork.
He spotted a gas station by the roadside.
An old man sat drinking behind the register.
“Alan Foster?”
The old man set down his bottle.
“Are you even on the right road?”
Miles handed over a bill.
The old man swept it into a drawer.
“Three kilometers north. The house with the white fence. Don’t tell him I said anything.”
Miles arrived at two in the afternoon.
The house wasn’t large—gray stone walls, pine trees planted by the entrance, and a lounge chair in the yard, as quiet as its surroundings.
He rang the doorbell.
An elderly man in a white shirt opened the door.
He was in his sixties, with graying hair and silver-rimmed glasses.
Alan Foster appraised him.
“Vought?”
“Former Vought.”
“Same thing,” Alan said.
“I don’t care who you are. You’ve got the wrong man.”
He moved to shut the door.
“Ji-ho Park.”
The door stopped.
Alan stood in the doorway, fingers resting on the frame.
After a moment, he said, “Come inside.”
Shotguns hung on the living room wall.
The bookshelves were lined with legal files.
Alan sat in a leather armchair, crossing his legs.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Former Senior Vice President of Vought Legal. Participated in covering up the deaths of seven Compound V test subjects. Retired in 2016.”
Alan let out a chuckle.
It wasn’t a cheerful one.
“Kid, I was doing this job when you were still playing in the dirt. I’ve signed more documents than you’ve had hot meals. You’re just a coffee runner—what makes you think you can negotiate with me?”
Miles didn’t take the bait.
He retrieved a folder from his bag and placed it on the table.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
Alan used two fingers to push the folder back.
“Save your breath. Whatever you’ve got in there, your boss has a copy too. I’m not falling for this.”
“My boss doesn’t know I’m here.”
Alan stared at him for two seconds, then set his drink back on the table.
“Keep talking.”
“S-017,” Miles said.
“Recognize that designation?”
Alan’s expression didn’t change, but his hand froze over his glass.
“March 8, 2016,” Miles said.
“You took a flight to Switzerland. Not for vacation. You used a meeting room on the second floor of a Zurich bank. Sitting across from you was a man in a gray suit, short hair, a scar on his left ear. You spoke for forty minutes. On your way out, you threw your notebook into a trash can.”
Alan’s face changed.
The whiskey glass on the table spun half a turn in his grip.
“How… how the hell do you know that?”
“I’m the truth Mrs. Park’s son couldn’t find,” Miles said, pushing the folder forward again.
“In March 2016, you took raw experimental data out of Vought. The complete dossier on S-017. You didn’t give it to anyone. You hid it in a safe.”
Alan’s hand tightened around the glass.
“You didn’t come here to negotiate.”
“I came to take it.”
Miles stood up and walked toward the study.
The floor plan of this house was public record at the Vermont land registry office.
“Stop right there!” Alan stood up, his voice turning harsh.
“If you take one more step—”
“Call my boss?” Miles turned around at the study doorway.
“Do you think that scares me?”
Alan’s face flushed red.
“You won’t get a thing! I locked it away. Only I know the combination. By the day after tomorrow, it won’t even matter anymore!”
Miles looked at him without a word, then smiled.
“Alan. Your flight the day after tomorrow is to Bermuda. Transfer in Charleston, then non-stop. You booked a vacation home for three months. Paid with your wife’s credit card.”
Alan’s hands dropped to his sides.
“You’re selling it,” Miles said.
“You have a buyer for S-017’s data. Handover in Bermuda, day after tomorrow. Am I right?”
Alan slumped against a bookshelf.
“There’s no way you could know this.”
“Your travel records. Your credit card statements. I reviewed them all on the flight over.” Miles pushed open the study door.
Resting against the inner wall was a safe.
“The code is your eldest daughter’s birthday. In reverse.”
Alan froze in shock.
“Your wife couldn’t remember the code, so she wrote it in her phone’s memo app. I had a friend take a quick look.”
Miles walked over to the safe, knelt, and turned the dial.
*Click.*
The door swung open.
Inside was a single manila envelope.
Miles pulled it out and opened it.
Inside were over two hundred pages of experimental logs—raw Compound V data, the complete dossier on S-017.
And a photo: a lab, funeral wreaths, and a body covered with a white sheet.
He closed the envelope and walked out of the study.
Alan lay limp in his chair, head tilted back, staring at the ceiling.
“What else do you know?”
“Everything about you.” Miles placed the recorder back on the table.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t make a backup?”
Alan said nothing more.
Miles walked out of the villa.
As he shut the door, he heard the sound of a glass shattering inside.
He didn’t look back.
He returned to his car, turned on the recorder, and replayed the final segment.
“Compound V wasn’t invented. It was discovered. It’s been there all along. The Creator… is still alive.”
Miles switched off the recorder and started the engine.
Sunset bled over the ridge, setting the forest ablaze in crimson.