Just as my fingers touched the leather, the speaker on the terminal crackled to life.

A voice, distorted by static but unmistakably my father’s, echoed through the empty bunker.

“If you are hearing this, Natalie, then the worst has already happened.”

The voice was dry, punctuated by the faint hiss of aged magnetic tape.

I pulled my hand back from the leather binder, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“I had hoped to tell you myself,” the recording continued. “But hope is a luxury we never truly possessed.”

I reached out again and picked up the black drive.

It felt surprisingly light, almost hollow, in my palm.

I slipped it into my tactical vest pocket and zipped it shut.

Then I took the heavy leather binder.

The cover was worn at the edges, the gold lettering of my name faded to a dull yellow.

I opened it under the cold blue light of the terminal.

The first page was a patient chart.

*Subject: Natalie Mercer. Age: Seven.*

My eyes scanned the columns of numbers and chemical compounds.

The handwriting was neat, precise, and instantly recognizable.