Page 86 of Nocturne

It’s clear in the way she’s fighting to hold herself together. For a brief moment, her tough-girl facade slips as she brings both of her trembling hands to rest on the table. Only then do I notice her death grip on her phone.

“I… I recorded it,” she whispers, her voice barely steady.

She unlocks her phone with a shaky finger, taps the screen, and lets the video start to play.

If I had the words to describe what I felt, I would use them. But as I watch the video on the screen, I’m left convinced that humanity is a lost concept in this world.

My stomach churns, a weight pressing down on my chest. The longer I stare, the more my mind rebels, trying to convince methis isn’t real—that no one could possibly be this cruel. But the images on the screen tell a different story.

I’ve seen experimentation—I’ve even conducted some myself—but nothing like this. None of the experiments I’ve been involved in required patients to be shackled to their beds. The worst consequences I encountered were acid reflux or something equally mild; they didn’t lead to death.

There’s a reason we have rules governing clinical trials. And there’s also a reason someone would rush the process, eliminating obstacles along the way. Results derived from human subjects yield direct data and can save a significant amount of money.

It’s easy to identify the mistakes made and adjust the formula and chemicals by observing the subjects’ reactions. They correct their errors at the expense of a life.

The thought makes me recoil, a shudder rippling through my body.

As Ivy described, the video reveals hundreds of gurneys lined up side by side on an industrial floor. Filmed from above, it shows a sunken platform where all the people are bound to their beds, surrounded by numerous scientists walking with pads in their hands. They move methodically, observing the subjects while one of them administers a disturbing concoction directly into their bodies.

My grip on Ivy’s hand tightens painfully as I watch several of the subjects jerk violently in their beds. They arch at unnatural angles, and I can't shake the feeling that some must have broken bones. My mind fills in the gaps—cracking vertebrae, splintering ribs—and I flinch. Their mouths open in silent screams—screams that would have been deafening if Ivy hadn't muted the video.

Yet, not a single lab-coated figure rushes to help them. None of them loosen the ropes binding their limbs, even as some thrash wildly, their bodies breaking under the strain.

A lump forms in my throat, thick and suffocating, but I force it down. Crying feels useless right now—powerless. There’s no way to undo what’s been done, and that thought alone makes my chest ache.

Tears stream down my cheeks as the camera pans and zooms in on a row of beds occupied by children. My heart clenches painfully, the sight tearing something loose inside me. It’s utterly heartbreaking to see those tiny bodies lying there, helpless and screaming in pain.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head as though that will erase the images. “No, no, no…”

I can’t help but whimper when I watch three little ones cough up blood, thrashing around as their skin takes on a sickly blue hue. Their small bodies contort and seize in ways that shouldn’t be possible. It takes just a minute—a mere minute—to erase the futures of such young promise. A minute for them to lie still, lifeless.

My vision blurs. My chest heaves with shallow breaths, and I press my trembling hand to my mouth, struggling to hold back the bile that’s rising fast.

Without missing a beat, the lab-coated figures jot down notes on their pads and gesture to someone nearby. Guards in thick black uniforms emerge from the shadows, swiftly carrying the lifeless bodies out of the room. The gurneys are pushed toward anotherroom labeled “Sterilisation.” Blood is wiped away as if nothing has happened, and no one so much as blinked.

My hands fall away from my mouth, shaking uncontrollably.

I turn toward Ivy, desperate to say something—anything—but words fail me. Her face is pale, her lips pressed into a hard line, her eyes filled with horror.

Bile rises in my throat when I spot a pregnant woman in the crowd.The video begins to shake violently, blurring the horrific scenes.

I realise it’s not the footage—it’s me. I’m trembling so hard I can’t keep still.

My breath comes in shallow bursts, each one catching painfully in my chest. I want to scream, to rage, to cry out that this is wrong, that someone has to stop this. But all I can manage is a strangled sob that tears its way from my throat.

I don’t realise how much I’m struggling until I blink rapidly, trying to banish the images of the various aged victims from my mind. It’s then that I notice Ivy’s hands are trembling as well. I attempt to cover her hands with mine, but my cowardly fingers shake even more than hers.

“What do we do?” I whisper, terrified.

I feel helpless, small. Ivy swallows hard, looking as haunted as I feel.

“I have no fucking clue. We can’t go to the police. We don’t know who works for whom.” She sounds desperate, her words barely a breath. “Maybe I could post it online? Expose them?”

But even as she says it, I’m already shaking my head. “They’ll trace it, Ivy. They’ll know it was you.”

Using Div won’t be useful either. The other parties are capable of hiring an IT guy too.

We know the truth. People this powerful would shut us down with ease, whether online or in real life. They’re ruthless enough to carry out these horrors without blinking—so what would they do to us?

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