At 7:24 PM, Dr. Esmir woke up face down on his desk.The lab was dead quiet. Just the hum of machines. And the weight of everything he'd uncovered. It smelled like antiseptic and old paper and bad decisions. Papers everywhere. Celiste's files. Cerin's evidence. Lanz's reports. Red string connecting a hundred years of lies across the whiteboard.
BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ.
3 MISSED CALLS: CERIN
He pushed himself up.
Neck stiff. Eyes shot.
No sleep.
Just digging through the past all night.
In the middle of the mess was the one file that mattered.
The one Cerin gave him yesterday.
UNIT 9. ROOSEVELT PROJECT. 2014.
STATUS: CONTAINED.
NOTE: ORIGINAL 1925. REACTIVATED.
Cerin's handwriting in the margin:
"Doc. The numbers don't match."
And at the bottom, barely there:
E---A W---S. MISSING.
He dropped it with the rest.
Celiste: 1925. COMPOUND E-1918-A.
Lanz: NURSE. 3 INCIDENTS. WHISTLEBLOWER.
1918. 1925. 2014. One formula across different decades. The blood was still on his hands. But there were holes. Dates that didn't line up: 1932. 1947. 1968. 1989. Outbreaks. Quarantines. People gone.
He circled them in red, then drew new lines.
Away from labs and doctors.
Straight to politicians, senators, cabinet members, donors.
The men behind Willgane.
"WHO'S REALLY RESPONSIBLE?
He stepped back.
The board was bleeding.
1918. 1925. 1932. 1947. 1968. 1989. 2014.
His thoughts were drowning as he connected the dots. Every board asked the same question.
The pattern repeated every 10 to 20 years.
WILLAGANES was just the one inside.
"It's not the formula," he said quietly.
"It's who writes the check."
He went to the window.
The city was still asleep.
The man in the glass didn't look like a doctor.
He looked like a man running from a ghost.
Then it hit.
BZZZT.
White room.
"Esmir... don't leave me..."
Gone.
He didn't break. He was past that.
He just spoke to the empty room.
"Quarantine was supposed to save lives."
"So why did she die alone?"
"Why is someone missing again?"
"You know what they ask in Washington?"
"Not if it's right. Not if it's safe."
"They ask: What's the profit margin?"
He turned to the wall.
Laughed once. No humor.
"Am I a doctor... or a detective now?"
"This is too heavy."
"Why am I still carrying the past?"
"For people who sold out?"
"For people who took my mistake... and turned it into a weapon?"*
Silence.
Only the paper answered.
E---A W---S.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
"Doctor?"
His secretary at the door.
"You've got an invitation. Gala tonight."
He didn't turn.
"An invitation? For what?"
"No idea. It was in the mail."
She paused.
"I have to go. My mom's sick. I need to get home."
He looked at her. Tired smile.
"Go. Be safe. Don't worry about me. I've got this."
"See you, Doctor."
Door closed.
His phone rang.
CERIN.
He answered. Flat. Controlled.
"What."
"Doc. You get the invite?"
No small talk.
"We've got work tonight. It's big. I need you here. I found something. You need to see it."
Esmir stared at the board. At the red string.
At the name. E---A W---S.
"Yeah," he said.
"I got it."
"I'll be there."
"Give me ten."
He hung up.
Outside the streets were loud with engines and headlights. Everyone was escaping work. He had just come out of the laboratory too. But he wasn't heading home. He had an invitation. He got in his car and drove past the noise, past the lights, until the trees swallowed him. The Gala was waiting in the dark.
YOU ARE READING
156 DAY ? - HORIZON
Ficción General156 DAYS? ( Part 1 ) Have you everbeen asking a questions? Or doubt on your whole life ? PREFACE: Nez suffered on his life when his family lie to him, sometimes he tries to kill his self to end whatever he takes... nez can be better? or he still...
