Isabella Hartley leaned closer to the glowing petri dish, her breath fogging the glass lid momentarily. The algae inside shimmered faintly, an iridescent green under the lab’s mage-light. She jotted a note in her leather-bound journal with quick, precise strokes, her penmanship neat despite the late hour.


    “That’s promising,” she murmured to herself, tapping the side of the dish lightly with a gloved finger. The algae didn’t react.


    Across the lab, a faint cough broke the quiet. She glanced up to see Dr. Alvarez adjusting his glasses and squinting at his own set of samples. His face was pale under the artificial light, his movements sluggish.


    “You should call it a night, Alvarez,” Isabella said, her voice warm but firm. “You’ve been at this as long as I have.”


    He offered a weak smile and a small shrug. “And leave you to save the oceans single-handedly? I’ll manage a little longer.”


    Isabella returned the smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She bent back to her work, meticulously logging the pH levels of each culture. The rhythmic scratching of her pen mingled with the hum of machinery and the faint hiss of the climate controls.


    The lab felt like its own world, insulated from the damp chill of Eldermist. Outside, she knew the fog would be rolling in thicker, pooling in the alleys and clinging to the docks. The thought made her glance at the window, though the frost-covered glass offered no view of the city beyond.


    A sudden clatter broke her concentration. She turned sharply to see a stack of test tubes toppled over on the counter near the door. Jonah, one of the newer lab assistants, winced and muttered an apology, crouching to gather the scattered tubes.


    “Careful,” Isabella said, crossing the room in a few quick strides. She knelt beside him, her gloved hands deftly sorting the intact tubes from the shattered ones. “It’s been a long day for everyone. No need to rush.”


    Jonah’s face flushed. “Thanks. I’m just trying to finish up before...” He trailed off, glancing toward the clock on the wall. Midnight was creeping closer, the thin hand ticking almost inaudibly beneath the lab’s other sounds.


    Isabella set the unbroken tubes on the counter and dusted off her gloves. “You’re doing fine, Jonah. Go ahead and wrap up for the night. I’ll take care of the rest here.”


    “Are you sure?” he asked, standing awkwardly and clutching the empty rack.


    She gave him a small nod. “I’ve got it. And I’ll be here tomorrow to double-check everything. Get some rest.”


    With a murmured thanks, Jonah slipped out, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Isabella lingered by the counter for a moment, staring at the jumble of notes and equipment. The project was monumental—a leap toward breaking down microplastics with engineered algae—but the weight of it pressed heavy on her shoulders. She ran a hand through her wavy chestnut hair, her fingers catching briefly on a knot.


    Alvarez’s voice drew her back. “You’re as bad as the rest of us, you know. Always telling people to take care of themselves, and then staying late every night.”


    She glanced at him, a tired but good-natured smile on her lips. “Do as I say, not as I do?”


    He chuckled dryly and shook his head, returning to his work. The sound of his pen scratching resumed, steady but faltering at times. Isabella returned to her station, focusing again on the glowing dishes. Her father’s voice seemed to echo faintly in her mind: Every drop in the ocean counts, Isabella. It’s never too small to matter.


    The scar on her eyebrow itched faintly at the thought, a phantom sensation tied to an old memory. She resisted the urge to touch it and instead leaned back in her chair, letting her gaze wander over the rows of samples. Each dish represented hours of labor, countless failures, and a hope she refused to let dim.


    A knock at the window startled her, the sharp sound incongruous in the muffled quiet of the lab. She turned quickly, only to find nothing but frost and darkness on the other side. Her heart gave a small jump before settling again, and she shook her head with a soft laugh.


    “Just the wind,” she muttered, though it didn’t quite feel like it.


    “What was that?” Alvarez called, his head tilting slightly toward her.


    “Nothing,” Isabella said, more firmly this time. “Probably just my imagination.”


    The two of them worked in silence after that, the atmosphere growing heavier as the hours dragged on. When Alvarez finally packed up and shuffled out with a wave, Isabella remained, her focus narrowing to the faint glow of the algae and the steady rhythm of her pen.


    Isabella''s pen paused mid-scratch, the faint squeak of ink against paper swallowed by the lab''s oppressive quiet. She leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms overhead as her eyes flicked to the doorway. The hallway beyond the frosted glass was dark, save for a feeble string of colored lights sagging along the ceiling. One bulb blinked irregularly, its rhythm mismatched to the rest, as though it were trying to mimic the pulsing bio-luminescence of the algae samples before her.


    She exhaled and tapped the pen against her notepad. "Festive," she muttered under her breath, the word edged with dry amusement.


    The air carried a faint metallic hum, the ever-present sound of the institute''s systems doing their unseen work. Normally, it was comforting—a subtle reminder of shared purpose. Tonight, it felt different. Hollow. Distant. She glanced at the mage-light above her, its flickering casting erratic shadows over the shelves stacked with reference texts and jars of preserved specimens.


    Her stomach growled, low and insistent, but the thought of leaving her station to walk the dim corridor to the vending machine filled her with a strange reluctance. She straightened in her chair, tugging her lab coat tighter around her shoulders. Still, her gaze drifted again toward the doorway. A small prick of unease needled at her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the institute wasn’t just quiet but listening. Holding its breath. She turned her focus back to the algae sample, its faint green glow a calming constant against the backdrop of erratic light and silence. Her gloved fingers adjusted the petri dish, and the tension in her jaw eased as she lost herself in the details of the notes she’d been compiling for weeks.


    A click echoed from somewhere outside the lab—too loud to be a system noise, too soft to be deliberate. Isabella froze, pen suspended mid-air, her ears straining against the silence. It could’ve been a door latch. Or a shoe against tile. Or nothing at all. She waited for a follow-up sound, her breath held involuntarily. When none came, she sighed and shook her head, muttering, "Darn pipes."


    Her voice broke the spell, the sound of it grounding her. She forced herself to focus again, jotting a line of notes with a determined efficiency. But the scratch of her pen couldn’t quite cover the other noise—the faintest whisper of air, or fabric brushing against itself, just at the edge of her perception.


    She stood, the scrape of her chair startlingly loud. Pulling off her gloves, she crossed to the door and peered out. The hallway was empty, the festive lights blinking lazily. She half-expected someone to pop out with a sheepish explanation—maybe Alvarez, realizing he’d forgotten something. But there was nothing. No one.


    Isabella lingered there a moment longer, fingers gripping the door-frame. She was used to the solitude of late-night work, thrived on the quiet focus it allowed. But this wasn’t solitude. It was something else. Something heavier. She stepped back into the lab and let the door close behind her with a soft click.


    “Always a way to make a difference,” she murmured, though the words felt thin tonight.


    The algae glowed steadily on the lab table, as though unbothered by the oppressive atmosphere. Isabella dropped back into her seat, pen in hand, and tried to concentrate again. But her thoughts kept slipping, her focus fraying like the holiday lights in the hallway.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Then it came—a scream, muffled and jagged, like it had clawed its way through clenched teeth. Her pulse surged, the hairs on her arms rising. Setting the pen down, she shoved back her chair, its legs scraping against the lab floor. A second passed. Then another. The silence deepened, heavy and unnatural, like the moment before a storm surge devours the shore.


    The lab door gave way with a soft creak as she stepped into the corridor. Cool air rushed past, and she had to stifle the urge to wrap her arms around herself.


    “Hello?” she called, the single word bouncing along the sterile walls.


    No answer, only the faint buzz of the overhead lights. Their magical flickers played tricks on the edges of her vision, shadows darting and vanishing. Her boots squeaked faintly against the tiles as she moved toward the source of the sound, the echo of her own movements somehow more unsettling than silence.


    Another noise, softer this time—a click, like a door latching shut.


    Her pulse tripped over itself as she started forward, her boots slipping just enough on the damp tile to make her curse her choice of footwear. She steadied herself against the wall, the cool plaster grounding her for a second before she pushed on.


    Halfway down the hall, she froze.


    Ahead, where the corridor plunged into deeper shadow, something moved—a fleeting blur. A figure, tall and lean, slipping into the gloom. She couldn’t make out a face, only the way the edges of their silhouette seemed to ripple and dissolve into the dim light, like black water spilling over stone.


    “Wait!” she called, voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. She quickened her steps, her breath hitching as she rounded the corner. Her heart hammered louder than the scream had been. She hated how loud it felt in her chest, how it seemed to drown out any other sound she might have been able to catch—a creak, a footstep, anything.


    The corridor ended at a set of double doors, one slightly ajar. The faintest glow seeped through the crack, a cold, sterile light that didn’t belong here. Behind her, something rustled—a quick, sharp noise that made her whirl around. The hallway behind her yawned empty, stretching back to the lab and its deceptively tranquil glow. She swallowed hard and pushed the door open.


    The room smelled of chemicals and seawater, its shelves crammed with equipment and labeled bins. Her eyes swept over the room, taking in the overturned stool and the scattered papers near one of the workstations. A camera lay discarded on the floor, its strap curling like a snake, the recording crystal removed.


    Then her heart stuttered.


    Oh no. No, no…” she whispered, rushing over to the body that lay crumpled on the cold floor. A colleague—Alan, she realized with a lurch of her stomach. His usually neat lab coat was a shocking mess of red. Blood pooled unevenly beneath him, smearing across the tile in jagged streaks, as though he’d tried to drag himself away from something. Or someone.


    “No, no, no,” she whispered, dropping to her knees beside him. Trembling fingers reached for his neck, searching for a pulse she already knew wasn’t there. His skin was still warm.


    The flickering light from above allowing her to only see glimpses of his wounds—a chaotic, impossible pattern of gashes, each edged with something like char. As though burned into him by something not entirely sharp or hot.


    Her stomach churned, bile rising in her throat, and this time she had to fight hard to keep what little food her stomach had from coming up.


    “Alan?” she whispered, though the name came out broken. “What happened?”


    His lifeless eyes stared back, unblinking and distant. The blood on her fingers felt unbearably sticky, grounding her in a horror she couldn’t escape.


    The mage-lights flickered again, their electric hum swallowing the sound of her shallow breaths.


    “Don’t move.”


    The voice, low and sharp as a crack of thunder, sliced through Isabella’s shock. Her head snapped up, green eyes wide and tear-brimmed, catching the flicker of movement at the edge of the dim light.


    From the shadows, a figure emerged—first the soft glow of a cigarette, then the stark profile of a woman whose presence felt like the shifting tide. The gloom seemed to peel away as she stepped closer, boots muffled against the concrete.


    “Detective Blackwood,” the woman said, her tone clipped as she flicked ash to the ground. “And you are?”


    Isabella blinked, her mouth dry. “I—” She coughed, her voice cracking like a frayed line. “Isabella Hartley. I—” Her gaze darted to the lifeless body beside her, stomach clenching all over again.


    “Step back, Hartley. Slowly,” detective Blackwood instructed, her cigarette balanced precariously on her bottom lip as she crouched beside the body, her dark eyes scanning the grotesque pattern of wounds with clinical detachment.


    “What happened here?” she continued after a moment, her tone calm but unmistakably pointed. She didn’t look up from Alan’s lifeless form, instead letting her question hang in the space between them like an anchor.


    “I heard someone scream,” Isabella said, her voice trembling but gaining steadiness as she spoke. “I was just—, and then—” She gestured helplessly toward Alan, her hands still slick with his blood.


    “I tried to see if he was—if he—” She stopped herself, swallowing hard.


    “I tried—” Isabella tried again, her voice trembling. She knelt frozen, sticky blood still clinging to her hands. “He was... I thought he might...”


    “He wasn’t,” detective Blackwood interrupted, standing and pulling a slim notepad from her coat. She scribbled something quickly, her sharp features catching the flicker of the mage-lights above. “Touch anything else?”


    “No.” Isabella’s voice cracked under the weight of guilt she wasn’t sure she should feel. “Just—him. When I heard the scream...” She faltered, her breath hitching. “Who could’ve done this?”


    The detective''s gaze flicked to Isabella’s hands, the blood smudged against pale skin. She stepped closer, crouching by the body with a practiced detachment.


    “Stay there,” she said, holding up a hand to silence Isabella before she could speak again. For a moment, the detective was still, her shadow seeming to stretch unnaturally long behind her as she leaned over Alan’s body. Isabella’s stomach twisted when Blackwood pulled a small flashlight from her coat and clicked it on, its beam cutting harsh lines across the corpse.


    “You found him like this?” Blackwood asked without looking up.


    “Yes,” Isabella whispered, her voice barely audible. “I heard a scream, and when I came—he was—he was already—” She faltered, her throat tightening. Blackwood’s eyes flicked to her, piercing, as though dissecting every nuance of her grief. She didn’t answer immediately, instead taking a slow pull of her cigarette and blowing the smoke away with a sharp exhale.


    “Marine biologist, right? Environmental activist. Made the papers last year for chaining yourself to that oil rig off Blackwater Reef.” The corner of her mouth twitched, but the hint of amusement didn’t reach her eyes.


    Isabella’s brow furrowed at the abrupt question. “Yes. How did—”


    “Doesn’t matter,” Blackwood cut her off, gesturing to the strange, charred edges of the gashes. “Ever seen injuries like these? Maybe on an animal?”


    “No.” Isabella hesitated, Blackwood''s words forcing her to look at Alan''s body once more.


    “It’s... it doesn’t make sense. It’s like... heat damage, but it doesn’t look cauterized, not completely. And the pattern—” She stopped, realizing how easily the words were spilling out. “Sorry. I’m not—this isn’t my expertise.”


    “Don’t apologize,” Blackwood said briskly, jotting something down without looking up. “Your expertise is why I’m asking.” She stood again, her gaze sweeping the space, pausing in corners where shadows lingered too long.


    “You said you heard a scream. Was it his?”


    “I think so,” Isabella admitted, her arms wrapping tightly around herself. “It was... sharp. Sudden. Then silence.” Her voice softened, cracking.


    “When I found him, he was already—” She swallowed hard, her throat tightening against the rest.


    Blackwood finally turned her full attention to Isabella, her expression unreadable but intent.


    “You’re sure you didn’t see anyone else? Nothing unusual on your way here?”


    The question snapped Isabella’s gaze to her. “You mean besides this?” She gestured helplessly to the body. “ What even counts as unusual anymore?”


    For a moment, Blackwood’s lips twitched, as if suppressing a smirk, but her eyes remained calculating. She tapped the filter of her cigarette against her notepad, the ember flaring briefly.


    “Fair point,” she muttered.


    The mage-lights overhead flickered again, their erratic hum filling the silence. Blackwood’s eyes darted upward, her jaw tightening.


    “I’ll need your full statement,” she said, her tone turning businesslike as she pocketed her notepad. “But not here. You look ready to keel over.”


    “I’m fine,” Isabella insisted, though her trembling hands betrayed her.


    “Sure you are.” Blackwood stepped back into the edge of the shadows, her figure half-shrouded, the cigarette’s glow the only thing fully visible. “But that’s not what I asked.”


    Isabella froze, her chest tightening as her eyes darted to Blackwood. The detective’s presence, so solid and unyielding, felt like the only thing keeping her upright. But then she noticed it—the faint ripple of shadows curling around Blackwood’s frame, like ink spilling into water. It wasn’t natural. It couldn’t be.


    “Let’s move.” Blackwood’s voice sliced through the haze, low and steady, her chin tilting toward the exit. “You’re not staying here alone, and you’re currently my only witness.”


    The words were sharp, practical, and left no room for argument. Isabella swallowed hard, her pulse thrumming in her ears. The sight of Alan’s lifeless body etched itself deeper into her mind, bile clawing at the back of her throat. She pressed her sleeve to her mouth, fighting back the urge to retch.


    “I—I don’t know if I can…” she stammered, her voice catching as she tore her gaze away from the corpse.


    “You can,” Blackwood cut in, stepping closer. Her green eyes fixed on Isabella, the kind of look that didn’t entertain weakness. “You’ve got no choice.”


    The authority in her tone steadied Isabella just enough to make her legs move. She cast one last, reluctant glance at Alan before following Blackwood into the dim, suffocating light beyond the doorway. Her breath came shallow and quick, each step pulling her further from the scene but not the horror.