A cold sweat broke out across my forehead.

I turned another page.

A photograph was taped to the sheet.

It was me, wearing a white hospital gown, electrodes attached to my temples.

I looked small, pale, and terrified.

My father stood just behind me in the frame, his face expressionless as he adjusted a dial on a heavy steel machine.

The date on the photograph was the day before my eighth birthday.

“You were brilliant, Natalie,” the recording said. “Your adaptability exceeded every metric.”

“But the cost was your childhood. Your mind.”

I felt a hard lump form in my throat.

My entire life, my career in the military, my discipline—it wasn’t my achievement.

It was a programmed response.

I was a weapon he had engineered in this basement.

“The drive contains the complete blueprint of the program,” the voice said, growing fainter.

“The access codes, the financial records linking Voss to the offshore accounts, and the names of the subjects who did not survive.”

“Take it to the authorities. Destroy what I built.”

The recording ended with a sharp click, followed by the steady hum of static.