Page 107 of Behind the Shadows
Folder after folder populated. Latin names. Redacted reports. Dozens of birth records tagged with code names and obscure religious phrases. One caught my eye: “Offerings: Book of Daughters.”
“Open that,” I said.
Dope clicked.
Inside: dozens of entries, each tied to a different child. Dates. Notes. Some redacted. Some were marked with symbols I didn’t understand.
Then—
“Here,” he said, his shoulders suddenly tight. “Entry 27. ‘Project Lilith.’”
The screen filled with text. My pulse skipped several beats.
Subject: S.A. (Samantha Alder) DOB: [redacted] Paternal: ‘Acquired via D.C. Initiative.’ Maternal: J.M. Disposition: Reserved. Trauma resistant. Ideal for conditioning.
Dope exhaled. “Shit …”
I leaned forward, reading it again.
“They cataloged me like livestock,” I whispered. “Conditioning?”
Dope didn’t respond. Just scrolled lower.
A faded handwritten entry bled through the screen like rot beneath wallpaper. A transfer log.
'Transferred to Primary Parent (Codename: Pied Piper). Status: Claimed.'
The words blurred. My vision pulsed. The floor tilted.
Dope scrolled lower.
My stomach twisted, and I tasted iron.
“He claimed me,” I said. “Like a … like a fucking possession.”
Dope sat back, silent.
“So it’s true,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. “He’s my father.”
Dope hesitated, like he didn’t want to be the one to say it.
“It’s not DNA,” he offered. “Not proof-proof. But yeah. It reads like a … possession record.”
I stepped back, heart jackhammering in my ribs.
“They planned this. From the beginning. He saw me, as a child, and saw something he could manipulate … control.”
The screen blurred. My body pulsed with heat—shame, confusion, fury.
I stumbled back, my hand gripping the back of Dope’s chair.
“I was never supposed to survive him,” I whispered. “I was supposed tobecomehim.”
My nails dug into my palms until my skin burned with the pain. Pain I welcomed.
And then something in me cracked wide open.
Not panic. Not grief.
