I did not turn on the overhead lights.

I climbed the three flights of stairs in the shadows, keeping my hand flat against the cold brick wall.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I reached the door of unit 3B and unlocked it as quietly as I could.

The studio apartment was exactly as I had left it three weeks ago.

A single metal frame bed stood against the far wall, stripped of its sheets.

My old pine desk sat under the window, cluttered with empty glass vials and dried-out markers.

I walked over to the desk and knelt down.

On the underside of the bottom drawer, I felt for the strip of heavy-duty duct tape.

My fingers brushed against the rough canvas texture of the adhesive.

I pulled it back slowly.

The black, rubberized case of the military-grade external drive fell into my palm.

It was heavy, cold, and solid.

I held my breath for a moment, listening to the rain beat against the glass pane above the desk.

This small plastic box contained the true timeline of my discovery.