Page 112 of The Last Morgan

Corey burst out laughing.

“Yo—what was that?!” he wheezed, gripping his stomach.

Lucy held up a finger as she tried to recover. “I was... being cool.”

“You’re the most disappointing badass I’ve ever met,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes.

She glared at him, then flicked the cigarette into a flowerpot. “Yeah, well... that was awful. Don’t let me do that again.”

They stood in silence for a few moments, the tension slowly bleeding out into the open air.

“I’m scared, Corey,” Lucy admitted finally, her voice soft.

“I know,” he replied. “But you don’t have to be. Not with us behind you.”

She looked up at the sky, then back toward the mansion. Somewhere inside was a box with answers. Somewhere inside was Byron, recovering from almost dying. Somewhere inside, Jimmy was waiting—chained, smug and dangerous.

And somewhere buried deeper still, was the truth about everything.

Lucy inhaled deeply—this time just the crisp, unfiltered air—and nodded.

“Let’s finish this.”

The house was quiet when Lucy and Corey stepped inside. The weight of the day hung over them like fog—thick, heavy, and unshakable. Every step deeper into the hallway made Lucy's stomach churn. This was it. No more running. No more questions that could wait. The box was here. The answers were here.

Barnaby was already pacing the foyer, his tablet clutched under his arm and two different colored socks betraying his rushed morning.

"Is it time?" he asked, barely able to contain the twitch of anticipation in his fingers.

Lucy nodded slowly, “It’s time.”

Corey shut the door behind them with a solid click, and the sound echoed through the stillness of the house like a starting gun. They made their way into the main living room—chosen for its size, space, and most importantly, privacy. Thick curtains were drawn. The air felt dense.

The box sat on the coffee table like a relic. Black. Heavy. It looked even more ominous now than it had in the moments they'd stolen it back. No one had dared to touch it since itarrived. It demanded reverence. Lucy stood in front of it for a moment, just breathing.

"Let’s not crowd her," Corey murmured, pulling Barnaby gently to the side.

But Lucy waved them forward. “No, you’ve all come this far. Stay.”

They gathered, a triangle of silent allies, Lucy reached out and placed her hands on the latch.

It clicked open with a reluctant sigh. She lifted the lid slowly, revealing a deep velvet lining.

Inside was a burned photograph—edges frayed, the image itself half lost to time and heat. Lucy’s heart dropped as she picked it up, recognizing her own infant face... and someone behind her in a white lab coat, his face obscured by smoke damage. The image sent a shiver racing down her spine.

“What the hell is this?” she whispered, more to herself than anyone.

Barnaby leaned closer but didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Beneath the photo was a small plastic card. A government-issued ID—its edges cracked, the ink slightly faded. The name had long since been burned away, but two words remained clearly intact:

SUBJECT: MOR-01

“What does it mean?” Corey asked, breaking the silence.

She set the ID down beside the photograph and reached back into the box.

She pulled out a sleek silver object the size of a coin, but thinner and glowing faintly blue at its edges. A digital key. Thumbprint locked.