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DATE: Sunday, October 28th, 2018
LOCATION: Washington, DC, USA
PERIOD: Morning
TIME: 11:28 AM
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The diamond ring was on her left ring finger, as it hovered just above a CD. She sighed softly. She slid the disc into the player with a soft mechanical click.
On the couch beside her lay a diary, the same one she'd found half-buried in the garden two hours earlier, she was already planning on asking her husband about when he was back from work. The spine was cracked and bent at an ugly angle, like someone had thrown it to the floor with anger.
The pages had fallen open just enough to reveal lines of cramped, frantic handwriting that slanted wildly across the paper, the ink smudged in places as though the writer had been shaking when they were writing. She hadn't read a single word yet.
Suddenly, the television flickered with a dull electrical crackle that made her flinch a little. The screen bloomed slowly into grainy black and white, the picture rolling once before it stabilized. She sank back into the cushions, legs tucked beneath her at first, then uncrossing them restlessly as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin cupped in both hands. Her eyes were already locked on the screen, brow furrowed instinctively when when she was trying to focus. For a split second, her gaze fell on the cover of the CD next to her that wrote in an uneven, hand-scrawled ink: Play me.
The footage began:
An overhead shot of a massive concrete structure filled the frame, the kind of brutalist monolith that looked like aliens built them and decided to drop it from the sky. The camera moved, gliding forward as if pulled by drone, descending toward the roof. She shifted again on the couch, scooting closer to the edge, one foot slipping out from under her to press flat against the floor.
The image suddenly cut to live feed. A timestamp in the corner blinked erratically—00:00:00, then jumped forward in stuttering increments. The camera pushed through heavy steel doors into corridors that stretched so long and so straight. Doors lined both sides, each labeled with a human name in stenciled black letters. Beneath every name, the same two words repeated:
FAILED SUBJECT.
The camera slowed at the third door on the left. She held her breath for a second and looked back to make sure she was the only one watching, and her kids were not peeking, then her focus went back on the Tv.
Through the small reinforced window she saw restraints bolted to the wall—thick leather cuffs, chains dangling loose. A heavy metal chair sat in the center, its seat and armrests stained dark in patches of blood that had never been cleaned.
Scalpels and syringes lay scattered on a tray nearby, some still capped, others not. The camera remained just long enough for her heart to start beating.
The camera moved on.
Another room: empty except for a cot with a thin mattress and a single leather strap hanging from the headboard. The next: occupied. A figure on the floor, curled fetal, back to the camera. She couldn't tell if the being was breathing or not.
The lens didn't stay long enough to let her observe.
Finally, the footage jolted forward violently, as if the camera had been yanked. Now it was tracking a man striding down a hallway. His steps were fast, irritated, dress shoes clicking against the concrete.
He had broad shoulders, he wore a white lab coat that was filled with blood stain marks. The camera hovered inches from his face, invading, refusing to give him space. He tried to ignore it at first—kept walking, eyes fixed straight ahead—but the lens followed every twitch and flare of his nostrils.
A voice finally spoke from behind the camera, quite low and distorted but definitely an angered male. "When are you going to consider stopping the killing, Mr. Pol? The Pot doesn't have to keep boiling over, does it?"
The man—Pol the Pot—stopped dead and turned slowly, anger flashing hot across his features: eyes narrowing to slits, lips peeling back from his teeth for half a second. Then, just as fast, it drained away.
His shoulders dropped a fraction. He exhaled through his nose, long and controlled, and straightened his posture like he was reminding himself who was watching. When he finally looked straight into the lens, all that anger vanished away.
"I've considered that of course Ruiz," he said with no single facial expression. "God knows I've considered it. But once they pin that label on you as murderer. It doesn't wash off just because you decide to put the scalpels and syringes down. That mark remains forever. So tell me… what difference does it make in the end if I stop today or tomorrow? The dead don't get any deader."
The voice behind the camera pressed harder. "Are the rumors true, then? The extreme toxicity protocols. No regard for consent, for basic human fucking liberty, for anything that might've stopped you from turning people into… into this."
A pause, then quieter, almost pleading: "How many, Pol? How many 'failed subjects' before you decided the cost was acceptable?"
Pol tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching—not quite a smile, more like amusement. He ran a hand over his jaw and replied. "You think the world outside these walls is any kinder? Any freer? There is no such thing as true freedom. Not even in the world you and I live in"
The voice cut in again and more frantic. "You could still stop. There are people still alive behind those doors. You could open them and let them go."
Pol's laugh was soft, humorless, barely more than an exhale. He shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving the camera. "Let them go where? Back to a world that already forgot them? Back to families who were told they died in a car crash or a lab accident? No. Once you start breaking people open to see what's inside them, you don't get to pretend you can put them back together and...and.... "
He exhaled.
"...some doors only open one way, mate."
The screen cut to black without warning.
She stared at the blank screen for a long moment. Then, barely above a whisper at first, the words slipped out:
"What the actual fuck....?"
The woman turned the CD case over in her hands, studying the cover for any name, any signature, any detail that might reveal the sender. There was nothing but a faint smudge near the corner, as though someone had hesitated before sealing it.
The diary disturbed her more than the disc. Its handwriting was unmistakably familiar — looping letters, slightly slanted, with certain words pressed harder into the page as if written in urgency.
Who would send her a diary… and a CD?
She thought.
A memory surfaced: a program everyone had been talking about back in 2013. She remembered hearing about it on the television — commentators debating, headlines flashing, speculation spreading like wildfire. Though she had never paid attention. Politics bored her, and she had always preferred to stay clear of public affairs.
But now the rumor felt personal.
Her thumb brushed against the edge of the CD. If the whispers about that program were true — if it involved surveillance, recordings, hidden archives — then this disc might not be random at all.
And the diary… if the handwriting truly belonged to who she feared it did, then this wasn't just about politics.
It was about her.
Tap.
Tap.
The woman frowned slightly and lifted her head. Before she could say a word, the door slowly opened, just enough for two little faces to peek inside. One pair of hazel eyes, then another.
Thérèse and Lorienta. Her twin daughters.
And the anger in her body faded instantly.
Thérèse whispered, trying very hard to sound serious, "Mom… close your eyes."
The woman raised an eyebrow but smiled anyway. "Close my eyes?" she repeated gently.
"Yes," Lorienta said, nodding quickly. "No peeking, okay…?"
The woman chuckled softly, pushing her chair back. "Alright, alright. I promise." She closed her eyes and even lifted her hands slightly. "I am officially not looking."
The girls giggled before she heard the door open wider, tiny footsteps padding across the floor as they moved around her.
Then, together, they shouted, "TADA!"
Before she could open her eyes, small arms wrapped tightly around her. Thérèse hugged her side while Lorienta leaned into her chest, her cheek pressed against her shirt. The woman laughed and hugged them back. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw their faces clearly—and her smile widened.
Their cheeks were painted in soft colors, their lips dusted pink, and tiny sparkles shimmered near their eyes.
"We've been working on our faces for the theatre play at school," Thérèse said proudly. "The Sare Poezi." The woman tilted her head slightly, pretending to think. "Sare Poezi?" she asked, teasing.
Lorienta quickly shook her head. "No, no—not SA-RE." She corrected Thérèse carefully, emphasizing each sound. "It's SWA-RE." Lorienta repeated, clearly proud of herself.
"Sware Poezi," the woman repeated, nodding thoughtfully.
Thérèse crossed her arms and added dramatically, "I already knew how to say it. I just didn't want to say it correctly."
The woman laughed softly and reached out, gently touching Lorienta's cheek, careful not to smudge the paint. "My beautiful girls," she said warmly. "Look at you. You've done such a good job."
The girls looked at each other shyly. Thérèse clasped her hands behind her back and tilted her head, pressing her lips together in a small, nervous smile. "Well?" the woman said, leaning forward a little. "Entertain me. What are you going to perform? Santa's elves?"
Before either of them could answer, the doorbell rang.
The woman sighed when the bell rang.
"Oh, sweetheart…" she murmured, mostly to herself. She looked back at the girls and softened her voice. "Just a minute, I think someone's at the door."
Thérèse's smile faded just a little. "You'll still come tonight, right?"
The woman stood up and knelt in front of them. "Of course I will," she said firmly. "I promise. I wouldn't miss your play for anything in the world."
She kissed Thérèse on the forehead, then Lorienta, holding their faces in her hands for just a second longer. "You two go practice. I'll be there, front row."
They nodded, reassured, and watched them go before she turned away to answer the door, she got up, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and walked barefoot down the short hallway. In the narrow mirror by the coat rack she caught her reflection—face drained of happiness after what she had just witnessed, eyes red and wide, lips pressed into a thin, trembling line.
Then she looked terrified of whatever was waiting on the other side of the door.
Could it be the anonymous sender?
She thought.
She took one steadying breath, and walked toward the door and unlocked the deadbolt with a click that sounded too loud, and pulled the door open. Only to meet two uniformed police officers who stood on the porch. The older one on the left was tall, maybe late fifties, with short salt-and-pepper hair, kind but exhausted eyes.
The younger one on the right looked early thirties, clean-shaven, neatly pressed uniform, thumbs hooked awkwardly in his belt as if he still wasn't used to this part of the job.
"Erm…Good morning officers?" Her voice came out shocked and barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat twice. "How… how can I help you this morning?"
The older officer gave a small, respectful nod, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. "Good morning, ma'am. Are you Mrs. Grace Salvador?"
She swallowed hard, throat tight. "Yes… that's me. Grace Salvador."
"I'm Officer Greg Harlan," he said, his tone calm and measured, the kind of voice trained to soften bad news. He gestured politely to his partner. "And this is my colleague, Officer Brad Miller. We're from the local precinct. Sorry to show up at your door this early."
Officer Brad offered a quick, sympathetic nod. "Morning, Mrs. Salvador. We really hate to intrude like this, even though we know it's a sensible topic to speak about"
Grace's fingers tightened on the edge of the door. Her other hand rose unconsciously to rest against her stomach. "Okay… um, what's this about? Did something happened? Did I… did I forget to pay a ticket or something? Or is it the neighbors complaining again?"
Officer Greg exchanged a brief glance with Brad before looking back at her. The look between them lasted barely a second, but it carried weight—an unspoken agreement that neither of them enjoyed this part of the job.
Greg turned back toward the doorway, his expression softening slightly. He shifted his stance, resting one hand loosely on his belt as if trying to make himself appear less imposing. "I'm afraid it's a bit more serious than that, ma'am," he said carefully. "We just need to sit down with you for a few minutes and ask you some questions about something that happened earlier this morning. Around two to three a.m."
He paused, studying her reaction.
"Would you have a moment to talk with us?"
Grace blinked, clearly confused.
"Today…?" she repeated slowly.
Her brows furrowed as she looked between the two officers. "I'm sorry, officers," she said, shaking her head slightly. "I really don't know what you're referring to. I've been here all morning. I haven't gone anywhere at all. I've barely even stepped outside."
She gave a small, uneasy shrug, as her mind went to the CD and dairy. "I've just been dealing with… some things around the house."
Officer Brad stood quietly beside Greg, his gaze moving briefly past her shoulder into the house. He noticed the nearly arranged living room, the untouched coffee mug on the table, the curtains only half open.
Greg nodded slowly.
"That's alright," he said in a calm, reassuring tone. "We're not suggesting you've done anything wrong, but we just need to clear up a few details."
He took a small breath before continuing. "Mrs. Salvador… are you aware of what happened to your parents this morning?" The question seemed to freeze her almost instantly as she stared at him.
At first she didn't move.
Then the color drained from her face so quickly it was almost visible.
"My… parents?" she said faintly. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something else, but no words came out. She looked from Greg to Brad and back again, searching their faces as if hoping to find some kind of explanation.
Before anyone could speak again—
A loud buzzing.
Her phone.
It rattled violently against the glass coffee table in the living room. Grace turned her head toward it instinctively, as the screen lit up brightly.
She recognized the ringtone immediately.
Britney.
It kept ringing.
Officer Brad glanced toward the sound, then back at Grace. "That's probably your sister calling, ma'am," he said gently. "She said she's been trying to reach you for most of the morning."
Grace hesitated for a moment before stepping away from the doorway. She walked slowly toward the table, as though her legs weren't entirely steady.
The phone continued buzzing.
She picked it up and her fingers trembled slightly as she looked at the screen.
BRITNEY — CALLING
The phone vibrated again in her hand, Grace let out a soft exhale and immediately she opened the call history instead to confirm what the officers were saying.
Her eyes widened.
"Oh my God…" she murmured.
Her thumb scrolled down the screen.
"She called me… like thirty times."
She looked up at the officers briefly, then back down at the phone as if hoping she had misread it.
What's going on?
Grace thought.
The phone began ringing again in her hand.
Britney.
Grace rubbed her forehead with her free hand. She hesitated, terrified of hearing any bad news, trying to hold on to a few last seconds of sanity before it was taken from her, she looked back at the officers "Sorry, I need to take this. Just one second." Officer Greg nodded immediately, stepping back half a pace to give her some space.
Grace turned on wobbly legs and hurried into the living room once again, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug, as she pressed it to her ear, and answered with a trembling breath.
"Grace, for fuck's sake, why haven't you answered any of my calls?!" Britney's voice burst through the speaker angrily. "I've been calling and texting nonstop since four in the morning—I thought something happened to you too! Where the hell have you been?!"
"I'm so sorry, Brit," Grace whispered, turning her back to the officers who had stepped just outside the doorway, hands clasped respectfully in front of them. "I didn't hear the phone—I thought it was spam or you drunk-dialing after another fight with Mike"
Grace took a deep breath to calm her nerves and went straight to the topic. "....but what the fuck is going on? I have two police officers standing right here at my door. They're talking about Mom and Dad, saying something happened early this morning. Was it a break-in? A robbery? Tell me what the fuck happened—I'm freaking out right now."
Britney let out a shaky, choked sob on the other end. "Mom is… Mom is alive, okay? She's at the MedStar Hospital Center right now. They're running tests and stitching up a cut on her head, but she's conscious and talking. The doctors say she's going to be fine physically, but she's in shock. She keeps asking for Dad. But Grace… Dad…"
Britney's voice broke completely, turning into a whisper. "They found him outside the house in ways I wont go into details with, for your own sanity. He's gone. They think it happened around two-thirty. Neighbors claimed they heard nothing, no glass breaking, just silence. Police say it looks like a home invasion that went wrong—maybe two or three guys, they're still piecing it together from the security footage down the street. Seems like Mom tried to fight them off since they weren't able to take anything valuable like his collection of watches, cash, Mom's jewelry. Though everywhere is a mess. The house is taped off. I'm driving there now but I need you to know first. Grace, Can you hear me?…"
The phone slipped from Grace's numb fingers and clattered to the hardwood floor with a sharp crack and the screen splintered in immediately. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, one after another, splashing onto the floor near her bare toes. Her vision blurred completely. She stared at nothing, mouth open, as she could hardly breathe.
"Grace…?"
Britney's voice came tinny and distant from the floor. "Grace, are you still there? Please say something—Grace?!" Grace's knees buckled. She swayed sideways, one hand groping at the air for something to hold onto.
"Grace!!!!" Britney screamed through the speaker.
The room spun violently in her head. The last things she registered were the heavy, hurried footsteps of the two officers rushing toward her. "Whoa, easy there, Mrs. Salvador—we've got you,"
And Officer Brad's arms reach out to catch her before she hit the ground.
Then everything went black.