The phone almost slipped out of his hands. Morgan held on tighter and read the message again, then again, as if the words would change if he looked at them long enough. He hadn't breathed for a few seconds when his lungs told him they needed air.
In the original timeline, Claire wasn't on the council. He had looked at the list of twelve members dozens of times in his previous life, studied their faces, learned their names, and memorized their crimes.
Claire Ashford's name had never been on any of them. She was a regular member of Murphy's church, attending services and events but never having any real power or authority.
Three years into the outbreak, she had died in the purges. Chen's people killed her during one of the random sweeps that targeted anyone who didn't show enough enthusiasm for Murphy's vision.
But she had died as a victim, not as a creator of horror. She may have been complicit, like everyone else who stayed in Murphy's sphere, but she hadn't been a leader. She wasn't one of the twelve.
Morgan's hands began to shake as he realized what it all meant. He had changed her fate by getting involved.
By keeping her close, trying to get her away from Murphy's influence, and making her visible and important through their connection. He had gotten Murphy's attention in a way that hadn't happened in the original timeline.
Everything he did to keep her safe only made her worse than she would have been if he had left her alone. Because he was there, the corruption was getting worse, and his efforts to save her were making things even worse, just like he feared.
The phone buzzed again, drawing Morgan's attention back to the screen. This time, a new name appeared on the screen. Rachel Kim. He answered without thinking, still trying to process what Claire had said.
"Morgan." Rachel's voice was urgent and excited, like someone who had been working all night and finally found what they were looking for. "I found something."
"The pattern isn't random. The disappearances and changes are happening in very specific places, with mathematical accuracy."
"I need to show you the numbers, so... can we meet?"
Morgan made himself pay attention to what Rachel was saying and put Claire's message out of his mind for now. "When?"
"Tomorrow morning. I've been looking at the relationship between faith-based places and transformation hotspots, and there is a direct link."
"Churches, temples, and any other place that has a lot of religious meaning. Someone or something is going after these places on purpose." She stopped for a moment, and Morgan could hear papers moving around in the background.
"Your father's church is in the area with the most people. That can't be a coincidence."
"Alright, tomorrow morning," Morgan confirmed, his voice flat even though what she was telling him was crucial. "Give me the address."
"Are you okay?" Rachel asked, her analytical focus broken for a moment by worry. "You don't sound right."
"I'm just tired. See you tomorrow."
He hung up before she could say anything else and wrote a note on the papers that were all over the place. 'Save Rachel Kim.' Keep her safe from a distance.
She needed her data for month seven exposure. Rachel died in the fourth month of the original timeline when her investigation got too close to the truth.
Council enforcers had broken into her apartment and made it look like a robbery that went wrong. Morgan needed her to live longer this time, and she needed her research to get to the right people at the right time.
She wasn't a friend to save. She was a valuable thing to keep. The difference was important to him now that he was using cold logic to figure everything out.
Morgan went back to the notebooks and carefully spread them out in front of him. He needed to make plans for how to get rid of each council member and do it with the same professional distance he had used in the military in his previous life.
People were most interested in David Chen's page. The surveillance schedule showed his daily routine, including the coffee shop shifts that would last for a few more weeks before he fully committed to Murphy's council work.
The walk home through poorly lit streets, the lonely apartment with neighbors who kept to themselves, and the predictable timing that made him easy to track were all times when he was vulnerable. The way he died had to look like an accident or at least not have anything to do with Murphy's group.
Maybe it was a mugging gone wrong or a random attack that Chen couldn't fight off. This would ensure that there were no immediate red flags or investigative steps, and it would also prevent Murphy from being portrayed as a martyr for propaganda purposes.
Sister Margaret needed a different plan. Her death had to look like an accident or illness, something that couldn't be turned into a martyrdom story or used to make the council stronger.
It would be worse to make her a saint than to let her live. The method had to be subtle, like her falling down the stairs or a gas leak in her apartment. It had to be something normal to be believable.
Morgan went through each council member, making detailed plans for how things would work that took into account witnesses, investigations, and alibis. He discussed the tools he needed, like weapons that couldn't be traced back to him, disguises that would hold up under casual scrutiny, and ways to get rid of anything that could be used as evidence.
The planning was very detailed and scary in how complete it was. This wasn't revenge driven by anger or vigilante justice. This was a planned, cold-blooded murder that was treated like a military operation, with backup plans, extraction plans, and risk assessments.
Morgan didn't notice that hours had gone by. The lamp on his desk burned steadily, making the same harsh shadows while he worked.
At one point, he leaned back against the bed frame and looked at everything he had made. All the paperwork and plans were spread out on the floor like evidence at a crime scene.
The math was staring at him from a lot of pages. Twelve lives now instead of hundreds of thousands later.
Two hundred and fifty thousand people were saved, but twelve people had to die. The math was clear, simple, and completely damning.
Morgan took a pen and wrote on a clean page, "Chen: 200+ deaths stopped."
"Margaret: More than 800 lives saved. Reeves: More than 450 deaths stopped." He kept going down the list, counting the expected saves against the cost. This turned human lives into numbers in columns that could be added and compared.
He wrote the last calculation at the bottom of the page. "Total projected deaths avoided: 250,000+. Cost: 12 murders that were planned in advance."
His hand was shaking once more. Morgan put down the pen and pressed his palms against his eyes.
He felt pressure building behind his eyes, a tension headache threatening to form. The math was accurate. The logic was solid. The most straightforward utilitarian equation anyone could devise indicated that saving twelve lives prevented a quarter million deaths.
But Morgan couldn't get away from the heaviness of what he was really thinking about while sitting here with kill lists and plans for assassinations. This wasn't being brave.
This wasn't a noble sacrifice or a necessary evil that could be defended with clever language. This was murder, planned and thought out cautiously, and then dressed up in math language to make it sound better.
He picked up the pen again and wrote another line at the bottom of the page. "I am not a hero."
"I'm a butcher who does math."