Page 35 of Lost Echoes

My phone vibrates with an incoming message from Phoenix:

Good. You’re moving in the right direction. Don’t sleep. Project Elysium is real. It’s why they buried Radley and why Laurel is a convenient sacrifice. Be careful who answers you next.

A knot forms in my stomach as a chilling thought strikes me. If Dr. Elias Radley allowed his granddaughter to take the fall for this scheme, what would he be willing to do to us?

Before I can process my thought, the screen fills with lines of code and file names. I’m filled with a cold certainty that we’ve just opened something too big to close. I feel both terrified and uncannily alive—like someone who finally pulled a curtain and found a whole stage of actors frozen in place.

Why did I have to think of that analogy?

“We did it.” Luke doesn’t sound triumphant. It’s more like a warning held as a fact.

Outside, the city hums, oblivious. Inside, a handful of encrypted files sit protected on three different drives and a disc in Luke’s bag. For a change, the question isn’t whether there’s a conspiracy, but how deep it goes.

I push a last button and set our live monitor to send every mention, however small, to an isolated report that both Phoenix and we can see. If any thread tries to call survivors “family” or push anyone to accept a spool, an alert will scream across our phones.

A minute passes. Then another. The waiting is part of the risk.

Then my phone pings again. It’s not an alert from the script, but a private message on Lost Echoes from an account I don’t recognize. The username is clean and ordinary, like a neighbor’s—WatcherAisle.

The message reads:

Nice try. You should have left well enough alone.

The screen goes white around the edges. My stomach drops into a place that feels like it belongs to someone else.

Luke’s hand finds mine and squeezes, fingers tight enough to hurt. “We need to move. Now.”

18

Billa

The kitchen in the main house is quiet—the heavy quiet that comes after too many sleepless nights. I wander in intending to grab something that doesn’t taste like stale coffee or regret. The Brannon mansion has more pantries than any house should, but right now I can’t even remember which one holds the bread.

I’m halfway to the refrigerator when I hear footsteps. Two sets, quick and uneven. Ember and Luke burst in like they’ve been chased. Their faces are pale, eyes wide. They’re wired, as if they’ve just seen a ghost. Or worse.

“Hey,” I say carefully, closing the fridge door. “What happened?”

Ember’s gaze flicks to Luke, then back to me. “We need to talk.”

They look rattled. Something’s gnawing at them from the inside out. I gesture toward the table. “Sit and tell me.”

They do. It pours out in halting pieces. Encrypted forums, survivors, someone named Phoenix. As they speak, I feel my own breath catching. The phrases overlap with things I’ve just heard in that support group. Performances, Observation 2, and then worst of all, the white spool.

My fingers twitch around the folded paper still in my pocket. The one-eyed bear stares at me from inside it.

I swallow. “You’re not going to believe this, but… I’ve heard some of those same phrases tonight. At a meeting Florencia took me to. Survivors. They said Laurel wasn’t the veritable monster, just the scapegoat. And they warned me about the spool, too.”

“Florencia?” Ember asks.

It’s my turn to fill them in on everything I’ve learned in the last few days.

Ember leans forward, eyes blazing. “So it’s not just online. It’s real. Unique pieces of the same puzzle.”

Luke rakes a hand through his hair. “We’re not imagining this. They’re organized and connected. Survivors in the open, survivors in the dark. Both trying to grasp onto pieces of the truth while someone’s still trying to erase them.”

For a moment, none of us breathes. The mansion seems to hold its own silence, as if listening.

Finally, I speak. “If they’re right—if Laurel’s not the mastermind—then the actual manipulators are still out there pulling strings.”