Page 100 of Lost Paradise

I don’t linger longer than necessary in here. Maybe Byron can make something of these items, and it’s better that he comes here and takes a look. The guy is a whizz-kid with extraordinary knowledge about everything.

As I turn to leave, my eye catches on a latch on the wall

Except it's not a wall; it’s a secret door or entrance. Finding myself in front of this closed entry, I check to see if I either pull or push it open. Instead, it slides, disappearing inside the wall.

What I walk into doesn’t even prepare me for what I come across.

It’s a stark, clinical-looking room, but there’s a large glass window that divides it. I push the entire door into the wall to allow whatever light there is to filter through this windowless room.

I go over to the glass partition and observe the area around me.

Behind the glass in the center of the second room stands a solitary chair, its frame worn and weathered as if it had borne witness to countless trials and tribulations.

There’s an old wooden desk in the corner facing a wall. A kind of Soviet telephone apparatus sitting on it. Faded polaroid photographs are strewn across the table with files of what I assume are the natives of this island strapped in the chair inside the glass room. Everywhere are various flasks and pippets. An old Russian typewriter sits amid the chaos on the desk.

I move closer to the glass. Leather restraints hang limply from its arms, a silent reminder of its sinister purpose. My stomach churns with dread as I realize the implications of what I have stumbled upon.

A two-way mirror looms ominously against the far wall, its surface clouded with age and neglect. Behind its murky reflection, unseen eyes seemed to watch my every move, sending a shiver down my spine.

"What do you think this was used for?"

Eve's voice startles me, and I nearly jump out of my skin as she and Byron join me in the dimly lit room.

"I'm not sure," I whisper, my voice barely above a breath. But the answer is all too clear—the room and those photographs reek of interrogation, of pain and suffering inflicted in the name of science long buried.

As we stand in silence, the weight of our discovery presses down upon us like a leaden weight. I can't help but feel a sense of foreboding. What other horrors lay hidden within the walls of this forsaken place? And what dark secrets are waiting to be unearthed in the depths of the jungle?

Eve steps closer to one of the dusty tables, examining a set of rusted instruments scattered around the desk. "These look like they could have been used for medical procedures, but they also seem... off. Not like typical medical tools."

"Guys, over here," I call softly, spotting a peculiar seam in the wall. It looks out of place, like it might be hiding something. Eve and Byron join me, our eyes scanning the wall with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

I point to the seam. "There's something behind this wall. It looks like a hidden door."

Eve runs her fingers along the edge, feeling for any signs of a mechanism. "It's definitely a door. But it's locked. We need something to pry it open."

Byron's face lights up with a sudden idea. "I'll be right back," he says, disappearing back into the office.

The silence stretches on as Eve, and I wait. My mind races with possibilities of what might be hidden behind the door.

After a few minutes, Byron returns, a triumphant grin on his face. In his hands is a long metal bar, almost like a crowbar. "This should do the trick."

He wedges it into the gap and, with a grunt, puts all his weight into it. The lock resists for a moment, then gives way with a loud snap. The door creaks open, revealing a dark room filled with shelves. Dust motes swirl in the air from the dim light that sweeps through as we step inside.

Our eyes sweep over rows of metal canisters of old-fashioned camera reels and VCR tapes, each meticulously labeled in Russian with dates ranging fromthe 1960s to the late 1980s. Eve picks up a reel, blowing off the dust and squinting at the label. "These are records. They were documenting their experiments."

Byron examines a tape, his brow furrowing. A sense of dread fills the room as we contemplate what to do next.

A chill runs down my spine as I realize the significance.

We walk back into the glass room.

Byron picks up a file, its edges yellowed with age. "Everything’s in Russian. We can’t read it, but look at the pictures and diagrams. It’s clear they were conducting experiments."

Eve gasps, her eyes wide with realization. "Experiments? Like what? Medical tests, viruses?"

Byron's expression darkens as he flips through the faded pages. "There are images of brain scans, chemical compounds, and diagrams that look like they’re mapping out sensory responses. This isn’t just medical experimentation.”

“What then?” I ask.

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