{hey there. Sorry I took time to upload this chapter}
Rick muttered under his breath, voice low and tense.
"Alright… time to cut this shit open."
The red beam hissed to life with a high-pitched whine—sharp, focused, searing through the edge of the shed's door like a scalpel carving flesh. Sparks erupted in wild bursts, ricocheting into the wet air, sizzling as they died. Each flare burned tiny holes into the thick fog, bright pinpricks swallowed instantly by the gloom—like stars blinking out in a collapsing sky.
The acrid scent of scorched metal surged forward, biting the nose and coating the tongue with the metallic sting of ozone. It was hot, electric, nauseating.
Behind him, 777 stood still—silent, unmoving. The flickering arc reflected across his face in jagged flashes, painting war paint across his skin. Near his boots, a black box pulsed in steady rhythm. Its lights danced in sync, humming as it silently drank invisible particles from the air, like it was listening to something they couldn't hear.
Jennifer's voice sliced through the charged silence, calm but unsettling.
"Warning. Internal temperature rising. Something inside is responding."
There was a pause.
Then 777 spoke, a trace of dry amusement layered beneath his unease.
"…Oh, we just poked something alive."
Rick didn't hesitate.
"Too late now."
The final cut bit through the last hinge with a satisfying snarl of resistance. A hollow clank echoed as the beam disengaged. Without missing a beat, Rick grunted and slammed his boot into the weakened frame. The door shrieked in protest, metal grinding against its casing as it creaked open.
They braced for chaos.
But none came.
Instead, the shed greeted them with stillness—too still. No blood. No mangled corpses. No monster in the shadows. Just a room, muted and dead quiet. The air inside was unnaturally cold, colder than outside, as though something had sucked the warmth out and taken it with them when it left.
Rick took a slow step forward and muttered, "It's pretty normal. More normal than I like."
Inside, a single desk sat centered, aged but oddly well-kept. A faint hum drifted from a powered-on computer, its screen dimly glowing. A blinking cursor pulsed in the corner—like a held breath, waiting to be released.
One wall was consumed by a sprawling corkboard, peppered with scribbled notes, clippings from old newspapers, and faded Polaroids. Red string laced through them in chaotic webs, connecting faces and locations with the obsession of someone spiraling toward truth—or madness.
On a nearby shelf, three books stood with unnatural neatness. One drew Rick's attention: Cybersecurity & Intrusion Forensics – Vol. III. Its cover was worn, the spine broken-in, the dust around it disturbed.
Rick scanned the room carefully. "I was expecting a body… or something inhuman. This just feels… too clean."
777 moved toward the desk. The air around the computer was warm—too warm. It clung to his skin, the heat radiating off the machine like breath from a fever. He squinted, eyes tracing each surface before he reached toward the mouse… then hesitated.
"There's a map here," he said, reaching behind the keyboard. He pulled out a folded sheet, edges browned and brittle. The paper smelled of mildew and old sweat—weathered, creased, water-stained.
He opened it on the desk, smoothing it with gloved hands.
Dozens of red Xs were scattered across the page—different cities, rural zones, remote patches of nowhere. A few were circled in thick black ink, bold and deliberate.
Rick moved closer, frowning at the map, then at the cybersecurity book again.
"Off-grid setup. Surveillance board. Someone was doing a lot more than watching cat videos."
He leaned over the monitor, watching the cursor blink in the corner of the screen. "Hey—777, yonk the HDD out of that thing."
777 nodded, already kneeling. He popped the side panel and reached in with practiced movements, fingers dancing around wires with mechanical ease. The faint whir of fans mixed with the quiet scrape of metal as he worked.
Then Jennifer spoke again, crisp and clinical.
"Blood report complete. The sample you sent contains human blood—genetic match: Shalit. However… trace saliva was detected. This may indicate regurgitation. Possible blood vomit."
Silence. Thick. Shocking.
Both men froze mid-motion.
Rick's voice came out hoarse, like something in his throat refused to move.
"…Wait. Shalit's blood?"
777 didn't look up. His tone softened.
"That's your wife, right?"
Rick stared at the screen. At the blood-stained mud still clinging to his boots. At the corkboard tangled with string and madness. His chest rose slowly, held it, then let it out like a release valve.
"She was here," he whispered. "And something made her bleed."
The cursor blinked again.
Once.
Twice.
777 shifted, concerned now. "Hey. Breathe. Chill. You gotta stay calm or you're gonna go full psycho mode."
Rick didn't answer right away. His fists clenched so tight his knuckles popped. His jaw tensed, muscles twitching.
Then, quietly, with the calm of someone not calm at all:
"Jennifer. I want this shed to disappear."
777 blinked. "Wait—why?"
"I… don't know," Rick muttered.
"That's not an answer."
Rick turned toward him, expression flat. "No I didn't lose it."
"Okay…" 777 raised a brow. But the seed of doubt was planted, and he felt it growing fast.
Jennifer chimed in like this was the most normal request in the world.
"Autonomous dismantling truck is being prepped. Estimated time to complete shed removal: 25 hours."
"…What the hell am I supposed to do with shed scraps?" 777 muttered.
Jennifer didn't miss a beat. "Dismantle and recycle them to manufacture new tech units. Efficiency rating projected at 82%."
He stared at the air like he could see her floating there. "You're really out here turning trauma sites into IKEA kits."
"Would you like assembly instructions?" she offered cheerfully.
Rick's deadpan stare didn't shift from the monitor. "Who the hell made Jennifer smarter than you?"
With zero hesitation, Jennifer responded: "Fx-Spider dad did."
Rick let out a dry laugh he didn't mean to. "Who's a good girl?"
"I am."
777, inwardly, was sure of it now.
Yeah. He definitely lost it.
Aloud, he sighed. "Okay. Let's head back to base. Regroup. You need sleep… or therapy… or both."
Rick moved toward the exit, voice flat. "Yes. Go and touch… that strange."
777 just shook his head. "Yup. Gone."
They stepped out, leaving the strange little room behind. The shed stood quiet again—emptied, stripped of any immediate horror, but still… wrong. Waiting. Something about the way the air moved around it felt like the world was holding its breath.
The low, guttural growl of the autonomous dismantler echoed through the fog, rumbling closer. It sounded less like a truck and more like something alive.
Rick didn't look back.
777 did.
The door still hung open—barely cracked—and inside, the monitor continued to blink. Watching. Waiting.
A flicker of text appeared:
> BEGINNING LOCAL CACHE TRANSMISSION…
Jennifer's voice slipped back into their ears:
"The computer is uploading data. It is fully isolated. Data is being stored in: FORAPC Black Box – Ver. 1."
Rick gave a tight nod. "Good. Redirect the data stream to the base."
"Data redirection initiated. Upload active. Estimated sync: 11%… and climbing."
Outside, the wind was sharper now, slicing sideways through the air. Rain battered down with a furious hiss. The gravel sucked at their boots like it wanted to hold them in place, the scent of metal and ghosts following them all the way back to the van.
The truck's electric whine was closing in fast, mechanical and cold.
Rick didn't say another word.
He just walked—like a man not sure if he was running from something or trying to find it.
777 glanced back again. Just once.
The shed looked like a casket now. Waiting to be buried.
One final flicker from the monitor pulsed in the dark behind the cracked door.
777 murmured under his breath. "Whatever that data is… it better be worth it."
They climbed into the van, mud caking the tires, water streaking the glass in jagged lines. Rick shut the door with a solid thud. 777 turned the key. The engine came alive, grumbling like it knew what came next.
Jennifer's voice remained steady. "Base of operations has received the sync request. Establishing secure channel… Data integrity holding at 98%."
Rick barely moved, gaze fixed forward. "If that shed was wired for something bigger… then whatever's on that drive is just the start."
The headlights cut a path through the mist, beams slicing through the murk.
And then—no more words.
Just the hum of tires over wet ground.
And a silence too loud to ignore.