That particular night, Adrian found himself wide awake, unable to surrender to sleep. Beneath the oppressive shroud of darkness, he lay in his bed, staring intently at the note that lay perilously close to the edge of his bedside table, as if it might slip away into the shadows at any moment. His gaze meticulously traced the intricate edges of the wax fingerprint stamped upon it, repeating the action endlessly, as if committing to memory every swirl and ridge, each detail laden with an unsettling sense of power and control—a whisper of dominance that sent a chill down his spine.
The words that echoed in his mind felt more like a command than a mere statement. "You're remembering. Good." It did not carry the warmth of encouragement, but rather a chilling insistence that he comply with whatever shadowy machinations lay ahead.
As the clock struck 4:00 a.m., Adrian finally rose from his restless vigil. He moved through the motions of showering and dressing in heavy silence, aware that the world around him remained suspended in the sleepy tranquility of early morning. He made the conscious choice not to reach out to Lena; he was painfully aware of how his hands trembled slightly, betraying his internal turmoil. But when he crossed the threshold into the morgue, a gut feeling told him he was not alone in his silent ordeal.
Lena was already there, engrossed in the glow of her laptop screen, her hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail that revealed a few stray locks framing her face. The wrinkles of her sweatshirt spoke of long hours spent in wakeful dedication. Without diverting her attention from the screen, she remarked, "You didn't respond to my messages."
Adrian was tempted to respond with a retort about freedom and obligations, but instead, he let a dry chuckle slip out. "You're not my parole officer."
"Good," she replied, her tone implying a playful severity. "Because if I were, you'd be in solitary confinement."
With a hint of urgency, she raised a file toward him, the paper crinkling in her grasp. "You're going to want to take a look at this."
Adrian felt a mix of curiosity and trepidation as he approached her side of the desk, taking cautious steps. "What is it?"
"Something unusual turned up in the city's juvenile records. Do you remember the name associated with the orphanage logs—'B7'?"
His heart sank as he nodded in confirmation. It was a degrading letter-number combination used to strip away their identities and humanity. He had always been designated as A4, while his friend had been assigned B7—a ghost of a name, just like the one Adrian carried, stripped away years ago. The painful memory of never truly knowing his friend's real name resurfaced.
Lena expanded a second file on her screen, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"There's a significant gap within the system—six children who were never officially processed after the closure of St. Enoch's. Most of them found their way into adoption, foster care, or psychiatric institutions. However, this particular one—'Subject B7'—was ominously marked as 'Lost in Transfer.'"
As she pivoted her laptop display, a faded black-and-white photograph materialized—a relic from the past—a boy who appeared to be no older than nine or ten, with dark, penetrating eyes that seemed to harbor untold secrets, and a guarded expression that spoke volumes.
Adrian's breath hitched in his throat, and he felt as though the world had spun to a standstill.
"That's him," he breathed, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "That's the boy. He was my friend."
"Do you recall his name?" Lena probed gently.
Adrian opened his mouth, desperation clawing at his insides.
Yet, utterly paralyzed by the weight of his memories, he found himself unable to utter a single syllable.
A stifling silence enveloped them both, pregnant with unexpressed memories.
Sensing his struggle, Lena's demeanor softened into one of compassion and encouragement. "Hey, it's okay. You're recalling things better than you were just two days ago."
He gave a small nod, though it provided little comfort. The boy's name lingered just out of reach, tantalizingly close yet perpetually elusive. Each time he attempted to grasp it, it slipped through his fingers like sand.
"His voice," Adrian murmured, almost to himself. "At night, he used to hum—when we couldn't find the peace to sleep. It was the same melody, over and over again. I can still hear it, even now."
Lena settled beside him, extending a hand of solidarity. "Do you think he's still alive?"
Adrian contemplated her question, the weight of the moment heavy upon him. "I think... he's the one who's been sending the messages."
Lena took a moment to process his words. Her gaze was steady, thoughtful, the implications swirling in her mind. "If that's the case, then we must uncover what truly happened to him after you were torn apart."
Adrian moved with purpose toward the drawer where the Jane Doe lay, still lost in anonymity, yet forever connected to his own past. "The symbol engraved on her body was identical. Exactly the same as the one I saw etched into the wall at the orphanage."
"Are you certain it's not just a coincidence?" she queried.
Without hesitation, he shook his head, a firm resolve settling in his chest. "It was his handwriting, Lena. You never forget a language you once shared, especially not one like that. Even if they force you to forget everything else."
For hours on end, Adrian and Lena meticulously sifted through stacks of digitized logs, scrutinized redacted medical reports, and painstakingly cross-referenced various psychiatric records. The overwhelming majority of the files they encountered were utterly unhelpful—some had been incinerated, others were sealed off from access, and a few had apparently been "accidentally purged." Frustration threatened to set in as time slipped away, but then Lena's gaze sharpened with a sudden intensity.
"Here," she exclaimed, her finger landing firmly on one particular entry. "This hospital stands out—Belmont Center for Juvenile Recovery. They documented a B7 in the year 2006. The record is classified for experimental review."
Adrian leaned closer to examine the file, his interest piqued. "That's a federal designation."
"Precisely," she affirmed, her voice filled with urgency. "This suggests it was connected to a government-funded medical initiative. An initiative like that could potentially allow for testing aimed at suppressing emotions or empathy in institutionalized children."
A wave of unease washed over Adrian, causing his stomach to churn. "So it's not just that they concealed him. They actively used him for experimentation."
"Actually, it's even more sinister than that," Lena said, lowering her voice as though discussing a grave secret. "They utterly broke him down."
At precisely 2:00 p.m., Reyes made her entrance.
She didn't feel the need to knock; instead, she stepped into the room without hesitation.
"You two look like you haven't caught a wink of sleep," she remarked, flinging a manila folder onto the desk with casual disregard. "Thought I'd bring you something in return."
Adrian wasted no time opening the folder, revealing three stark black-and-white crime scene photographs.
Each photo portrayed a different victim.
Each victim spanned a different year.
All were discovered in proximity to rivers, scattered across various boroughs within the expansive city.
Every victim was female.
Every last one was a teenager.
Adrian's heart sank further as he observed a subtle mark close to the sternum on each of the bodies—different locations, yet identical in shape.
His mouth felt dry as he uttered, "These cases were never documented as linked."
"They weren't meant to be connected," Reyes clarified, her tone brisk. "Each police precinct registered them independently. Different medical examiners, distinct assumptions. But those symbols tie them all together."
With a deft motion, she extracted a fourth photo from the folder.
This time, it was not of a victim.
No, it was an image of a wall.
A concrete barrier in a state of disrepair. Scrawled across its surface in chalk were haunting words:
I AM NOT DEAD. I AM NOT FORGOTTEN.
Adrian gazed at the image for what felt like an eternity, mulling over its implications.
"Do you know where this is?" he asked, his curiosity now intense.
"An abandoned drainage tunnel, the Calgrove viaduct," Reyes replied, her eyes locking onto his. "It's the same location where your Jane Doe was discovered."
A tremor began to creep into Adrian's hands, an outburst of suppressed anxiety that he couldn't quite control.
"I think... he's trying to communicate with me," Adrian said shakily. "I believe I was meant to find her."
Lena cast him a cautious glance, uncertainty flickering across her features.
Reyes leaned in closer, her tone shifting to something more serious. "You had a connection with him, didn't you?"
"I believe he's B7," Adrian confessed, the weight of the realization bearing down on him.
Reyes remained silent for an extended moment, as if weighing his words carefully.
Eventually, she nodded, a look of determination crossing her face. "Then we need to locate him before he believes you've forgotten about him once again."
Later that night, a profound sense of loneliness enveloped Adrian as he sat in the solitude of his apartment. He found himself fixated on the old photograph of the boy—B7. It represented the last tangible link to someone who had once filled his world with light and meaning. He let his thumb glide over the contours of the boy's face, searching for clarity.
Adrian endeavored once more to recall the name that had slipped away from him like sand through fingers.
But it remained elusive.
All that lingered in his consciousness was the haunting sound of a gentle hum. A fractured lullaby echoing through the darkness. And the acrid scent of smoke and fire.