The world outside the cabinet didn't feel real.
I stood at the edge of the door for a long time, one hand resting against the cold frame, body crouched low, listening. Not for anything specific—just anything. A rustle. A click. A sound too steady to be the wind. But the silence held.
It held through the slow crack of the door as I pushed it open. Through the breath that crawled up the back of my throat. Through my first steps out into the center of the ruined lab.
Each movement felt like a crime.
I walked like I'd learned to tiptoe for the first time, knees bent, spine tight, arms floating just slightly out from my body to help balance. I didn't step on glass. Didn't touch metal. I placed each foot where the dust looked thickest, because that meant it hadn't been disturbed.
And that meant it probably wouldn't sound.
Still. Every muscle in me buzzed. The skin on my back crawled with the memory of how close those claws had come. How long I'd sat frozen in that metal tomb, waiting to be torn out of it. The silence now didn't feel like safety. It felt like a test.
The lab wasn't as big as it had first looked. Debris filled most of the corners—metal supports, shattered consoles, bones. Real ones. Some big. Some small. I tried not to look at them too long. One had a boot still tangled in what was left of a leg. That one made my stomach lurch.
I turned away.
Toward something better.
Something useful.
Near the collapsed doorway, half-buried under a tarp and an overturned rack, I saw them.
Shoes.
Not boots. Not sandals. Running shoes.
They were dusty, dirty, cracked at the toe seams—but light. Fast. Real shoes meant for movement.
I stepped closer, crouched low. One was caught under a girder, so I had to pry it out. The laces came with it. The heel was scuffed raw, and the tongue looked half-melted from whatever weathered this place, but the sole?
Still intact.
I slipped them on without hesitation. My feet were damp with sweat and grit, and the shoes rubbed in the wrong places—but it didn't matter. These weren't for comfort. These were for not dying.
I flexed my toes, tested my weight. Quiet.
Much quieter than the boots I'd had before—thicker, harder-soled, the kind that scraped against tile. These gripped. These were made to move.
I tied the laces tight, double-knotted, and stood.
Then I did the worst thing a human can do when scared: I got curious.
It was stupid, but I couldn't help it. I started snooping.
Not much. Just slow steps. Eyes scanning the half-lit room.
And that's when I found the laptop.
It sat against the wall, cracked open, screen dark. Dust covered the keyboard like a second skin. I almost missed it—blended in with the broken tech scattered everywhere else. But something about it caught my eye. It wasn't covered in vines. Wasn't rusted through. Just old.
I crouched beside it and ran a finger across the trackpad.
It chirped.
The screen blinked once. Then again. Then flared to life with a faint, flickering glow.
A login screen.
White text.
Green background.
A password field.
"Damn," I whispered.
But then I saw it.
In the corner.
Date: March 4th, 2000.
I stared.
Not at the password field.
At the date.
March fourth.
The breath left my lungs in a slow, silent exhale.
That meant—
If I remembered right…
InGen had abandoned Isla Sorna in '99. The last of the genetics crew, the black site teams—they pulled out after the Spinosaurus got loose. After control broke. They sealed the place with silence.
If it was March 2000 now, then no one was coming.
Not soon.
Not for a year.
I did the math in my head, even though my stomach already knew the answer. The rescue mission that brought Grant and the others didn't happen until 2001.
That was the soonest possibility.
If I didn't luck into a visiting poacher crew or another rogue science team poking around, my best chance was still a year away.
And even then…
Even then, it wasn't a rescue mission. It was an accident. A hijacked plane. A misfire.
Real, official rescue wouldn't come until four years later.
Four.
Years.
I sat back against the wall, shoes creaking quietly under me.
One year to maybe be seen.
Four years to definitely be saved.
That's if I even made it to summer.
That's if the raptors didn't smell me in the next ten minutes.
That's if the Spinosaurus didn't catch my scent and track me to the ends of the earth.
I stared at the laptop screen until the backlight dimmed into sleep mode.
Four years.
And I had running shoes, a ruined lab, and no food.
No water.
No weapons.
Just breath, bruises, and fear.
And now—a date.
I'd wanted to know when I was.
Now I did.
And it felt like knowing the date of your own funeral.