Federal Holding Facility — Interview Room
The room was chilly; the cold seeped into the metal table and the concrete floor. Kline sat cuffed to the chair, posture rigid, eyes fixed on the evaluator across from him. He looked worse today — paler, more drawn, the arrogance still there but frayed at the edges. The evaluator clicked on the recorder. “Session three. Continuing inquiry into the implant sequence and the chamber’s purpose.”
Kline didn’t blink. The evaluator folded his hands. "Dr. Kline, yesterday you mentioned the process encountered an interruption at the threshold. Today we need clarity. What was the next stage?"
Kline’s jaw tightened. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“We can’t help him if we don’t know what you were doing.”
Kline’s eyes flickered — irritation, then something sharper. “You can’t help him. You don’t have the infrastructure.”
“What infrastructure?”
Kline didn’t answer.
The evaluator tried again. “What was the chamber designed to do?”
Kline leaned back, cuffs clinking. “It wasn’t the chamber. The chamber was just the entry point.”
“Entry to what?”
Kline’s lips curled into a faint smile. “The continuation.”
The evaluator paused. “Continuation where?”
Kline’s eyes narrowed. “You think Fourteen was the only site?”
The evaluator’s pulse kicked up. “Are you saying there are others?”
Kline didn’t respond. But the silence was loud.
The evaluator pressed. “Where?”
Kline’s jaw clenched. “You don’t have clearance.”
“You’re in federal custody,” the evaluator said. “Clearance is no longer your concern.”
Kline’s composure cracked — just a hairline fracture, but enough. He leaned forward, voice low and sharp. “You don’t know what you’re asking. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“Then tell me.”
Kline exhaled slowly, frustration bleeding through. "The right tools or facility are not available to you. The personnel you have are insufficient. You don't have—"
He stopped. Too late.
The evaluator caught it. “Don’t have what?”
Kline’s eyes flicked away. “Nothing.”
“What don’t we have, Dr. Kline?”
Kline’s jaw tightened. “The northern site is beyond your jurisdiction.”
The evaluator froze. “Northern site?” he repeated.
Kline’s expression shifted: realization, then anger at himself. He’d slipped.
The evaluator leaned forward. “Where is it?”
Kline didn’t answer.
The evaluator pressed harder. “Where is the northern site?”
Kline’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You won’t reach it.”
“Why not?”
Kline’s eyes lifted, cold and certain. “Because Bergmann won’t let you.”
The evaluator’s breath caught. “Who is Bergmann?”
Kline’s expression shuttered instantly — the door slamming shut behind his eyes.
“I said nothing.”
“You said a name.”
Kline leaned back, cuffs clinking. “This interview is over.”
The evaluator stared at him, pulse pounding. Because he knew — even if he didn’t understand the name, even if he didn’t know the location, even if he didn’t know the scope — something had just shifted.
###
ICU Hallway — Carter Hayes and Leah Gagnon
Hayes and Leah stood outside the ICU room, reviewing the latest medical update when the federal liaison approached at a brisk pace. “Hayes,” the liaison said, “we need you in the briefing room. Now.”
Hayes frowned. “What happened?”
“Kline talked.”
Leah stiffened. “About what?”
The liaison hesitated. “Another site.”
Hayes’ stomach dropped. “Where?”
“He didn’t say. Not directly.”
Leah’s voice sharpened. “What did he say?”
The liaison looked between them, eyes grim. “He said it’s in the north.”
Hayes’ jaw tightened. “North, where?”
The liaison swallowed. “Canada.”
Leah’s breath caught. “Canada?”
“And there’s more,” the liaison said. “He mentioned a name.”
Hayes’ voice was low. “Whose name?”
The liaison hesitated. “Kline said… Bergmann.”
Leah froze. Hayes’ expression hardened.
“Get the transcript,” he said. “Now.”
###
ICU — Elijah Greyhawk
Elijah didn’t hear the footsteps in the hallway. He didn’t hear the muffled voices or the shift in the air outside the room. He heard only Chet’s breathing. Slow. Uneven. But steady.
Chet’s fingers twitched again, curling weakly around Elijah’s. Elijah leaned forward, brushing a hand through his hair.
“You’re safe,” he whispered. “You’re out of the facility and you're not alone.”
Chet’s lips parted — a faint, broken sound escaping. “Elijah…”
Elijah swallowed hard. “Yeah. I’m right here.”
Chet’s brow furrowed, a flicker of pain crossing his face. Elijah squeezed his hand gently. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”
Chet’s breathing steadied. Elijah exhaled shakily. Elijah didn’t know what was happening outside the room. He didn’t know what Kline had said. He didn’t know the name that had just entered the investigation.
All he knew was this: Chet was still fighting. And Elijah wasn’t leaving him.
Not now. Not ever.