The Hollowed / Season 1, Episode 1
Dust in the Joints
The shuttle’s brakes hissed like a snake caught under a boot, and Jake Sutter gripped the cracked vinyl of his seat as the vehicle lurched to a stop. His knuckles whitened, not from nerves but from the ache that never left his hands anymore—thirty years old and already carrying the coal dust of a lifetime in his joints. The other volunteers around him murmured, their voices a low hum over the engine’s dying groan, but Jake kept his eyes on the window. Outside, New Eden sprawled under a gray West Virginia sky, all glass and steel grafted onto the bones of a mining town that’d been dead since his granddad’s day. The biotech company had rebuilt it, polished it, made it gleam like a hospital ward. Too clean. Too quiet. His gut twisted, not with fear but with something heavier—hope, maybe, that this place would pay out the way they promised. Ten grand a month just to live here, eat their food, take their pills. A man could rebuild a life with that kind of money.
“Welcome to paradise,” muttered the guy next to him, a wiry kid with a patchy beard and a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. Jake didn’t answer. He hauled his duffel from under the seat, the canvas rough against his callused palm, and shuffled down the aisle with the others. The air outside hit him first—cold, sharp, smelling of pine and something faintly chemical, like bleach wiped over rust. The shuttle had parked in a plaza of smooth concrete, ringed by buildings so new the windows still had shipping stickers on them. A digital billboard flashed overhead: Nexagen Corp Welcomes You to New Eden. Wellness Redefined. The letters glowed too bright, stinging his eyes.
A woman in a crisp white coat stood waiting, clipboard in hand, her smile as tight as a suture. “I’m Dr. Wren Calloway,” she said, voice clipped, each word measured like she’d rehearsed it. “Chief Medical Officer here at New Eden. We’re thrilled to have you as part of our community wellness experiment. If you’ll follow me, we’ll get you processed and settled.” Her eyes flicked over the group—two hundred volunteers, give or take, all shapes and sizes, some looking hungry for a fresh start, others just hungry. Jake felt her gaze linger on him a half-second too long, like she was cataloging something. He shifted his weight, boots scuffing the concrete, and adjusted the duffel on his shoulder. Processed. Sounded like livestock.
They moved as a herd toward the nearest building, a low-slung structure labeled Intake Center in sterile black lettering. Inside, the air was colder still, the kind of chill that crept under your skin and stayed. The floors shone like wet glass, reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead in harsh, jittery streaks. Jake’s boots squeaked with every step, the sound grating against the hum of some unseen ventilation system. At the check-in desk, a younger staffer handed him a tablet, the screen already open to a consent form longer than a damn novel. “Sign with your finger,” the kid said, not looking up. Jake hesitated, the stylus hovering. He wasn’t much for reading fine print, but something about the place—the too-perfect walls, the faint medicinal tang in the air—made his spine prickle.
“You got a pen instead?” he asked, voice rough from years of shouting over machinery. The kid blinked, like the request didn’t compute, then shook his head. Jake sighed, scrawled his name across the screen, and handed it back. Felt like signing away more than just liability.
Across the room, Maddie Chen leaned against a wall, her phone disguised as a fidget toy in her hand, recording every word she could catch. She’d cut her hair short for this gig, dyed it a nondescript brown, and swapped her usual leather jacket for a thrift-store hoodie—anything to blend in with the other volunteers. Twenty-seven, sharp as a tack, and already three articles deep on Nexagen Corp before she’d faked her way into their little experiment. The company had a reputation for glossy press releases and buried lawsuits, and now she was inside their petri dish. Her thumb tapped the phone’s side, a nervous tic, as she scanned the room. Most of the volunteers looked like they’d been ground down by life—tired eyes, slumped shoulders, the kind of people who’d sign up for a corporate trial because the alternative was worse. Her gaze snagged on a guy with a duffel, broad-shouldered, moving like he carried weight even when he wasn’t. He caught her looking, and she dropped her eyes fast, pretending to adjust her sneaker. Couldn’t afford to stand out. Not yet.
The line shuffled forward, and Maddie tucked the phone into her pocket, her fingers brushing the tiny digital recorder she’d smuggled in. It was old-school, barely bigger than a thumb drive, but it picked up frequencies most mics couldn’t. She’d tested it in her apartment before coming here, catching the hum of her neighbor’s fridge through two walls. If Nexagen was hiding something—and she knew they were—this place would talk, even if the people didn’t. A staffer waved her to a counter, and she pasted on a tired smile, the kind that said she was just another broke nobody looking for a lifeline. “Name?” the staffer asked, not looking at her.
“Maddie Chen,” she said, voice soft but steady. She handed over the fake ID she’d paid too much for, her real one stashed in a safe deposit box back in Pittsburgh. The staffer scanned it, nodded, and slid a wristband across the counter. “Wear this at all times. Tracks vitals. Part of the program.” Maddie snapped it on, the plastic cold against her skin, and felt a faint vibration as it synced to whatever system they were running. Great. A leash she couldn’t take off.
Back at the head of the group, Dr. Wren Calloway watched the intake process with a precision that bordered on mechanical. At forty-five, she’d spent half her career in sterile labs and boardrooms, the other half in field hospitals where the air smelled of blood and disinfectant. New Eden was supposed to be her triumph—a controlled environment to test Nexagen’s latest biometrics, to prove that wellness could be engineered as easily as a drug. She believed in the work, had staked her reputation on it, but standing here now, clipboard pressed to her chest like a shield, she felt the first flicker of unease. The volunteers were too quiet, too compliant, their faces a gallery of resignation. She adjusted her glasses, the metal frames cool against her temples, and forced her posture straighter. Doubt was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
“Once you’re processed,” she announced, her voice carrying over the murmur of the crowd, “you’ll be assigned housing units. Meals are provided in the central dining hall at 0700, 1200, and 1800. Supplements will be distributed with breakfast—mandatory for participation. Any questions?” Her tone didn’t invite them, but a hand shot up anyway, a woman with frayed braids and a skeptical squint.
“What’s in the supplements?” the woman asked, crossing her arms. Wren’s smile didn’t waver, though her fingers tightened on the clipboard.
“Proprietary blend,” she said smoothly. “Vitamins, minerals, and trace compounds to support the body’s natural systems. All FDA-compliant, of course.” The woman didn’t look convinced, but she lowered her hand. Wren exhaled through her nose, the air sharp in her throat. She’d memorized the talking points, delivered them a hundred times in meetings with Nexagen’s board, but here, under the harsh lights of the intake center, they felt thinner. She glanced at her watch—etched steel, a gift from her mentor at med school—and noted the time. Fifteen minutes until the first group was fully processed. Efficiency was paramount.
Jake, meanwhile, had been herded into a side room for a baseline medical check. The walls were white, the kind of white that made your eyes ache if you stared too long, and the air carried a faint sting of antiseptic. A nurse—nametag read Keller—motioned him to a chair, her gloved hands moving with practiced speed as she prepped a blood draw. “Arm out,” she said, not a request. Jake complied, rolling up the sleeve of his flannel, the fabric stiff with years of sweat and grime. His forearm was a map of scars, some from mine work, others from fights he didn’t like remembering. Keller didn’t flinch, just swabbed the crook of his elbow with an alcohol pad, the cold bite making him hiss.
“First time in a setup like this?” she asked, voice flat, as she slid the needle in. Jake grunted, watching the vial fill with dark red.
“First time lettin’ a company own me for six months,” he said, half a joke, half not. Keller didn’t laugh. She pulled the needle free, pressed a cotton ball to the puncture, and taped it down with a strip of adhesive that tugged at his skin.
“Vitals look solid,” she muttered, checking a tablet. “You’re cleared. Head to housing—unit 4B. Keycard’s at the desk.” Jake stood, flexing his arm, the ache in his joints flaring for a second before dulling again. Something felt off, not in the room but in him. Like his blood was humming, just under the surface. Probably nothing. Had to be nothing.
Outside the medical room, Maddie lingered near a bulletin board, pretending to read a schedule of “community activities” while her recorder ran in her pocket. The board listed yoga at 0800, group therapy at 1400, something called “mindfulness integration” at 1600. All mandatory, of course. Her lips pressed thin as she noted the language—every word polished, every activity framed as a benefit. She’d seen Nexagen’s PR before, knew how they spun things. Her eyes darted to the side, catching a glimpse of the guy with the duffel—Jake, she’d overheard—emerging from the medical wing. He moved heavy, like he was carrying more than just that bag, and for a second their gazes locked again. She turned away fast, heart ticking up, and adjusted her hoodie. Too early to make connections. Too early to trust anyone.
The housing units were a ten-minute walk from intake, across a courtyard of manicured gravel and low shrubs that looked like they’d been measured with a ruler. The air bit at Jake’s face as he trudged along, keycard in hand, the plastic edges digging into his palm. Unit 4B was a narrow townhouse, painted a bland beige, with windows that didn’t open—sealed shut, he noticed, as he stepped inside. The interior smelled of fresh paint and something sweeter, almost sickly, like artificial fruit. The furniture was minimal—couch, table, bed, all in shades of gray that sucked the life out of the room. He dropped his duffel on the floor, the thud echoing in the quiet, and checked the kitchenette. Fridge stocked with pre-packaged meals, labels reading Nexagen Nutritional Standard. A bottle of water on the counter, cap sealed, with a note taped to it: Drink with first supplement. Welcome to New Eden.
He stared at the bottle, the condensation beading on the plastic, cold under his fingertips. Ten grand a month, he reminded himself. Enough to pay off the last of his dad’s medical bills, enough to start over somewhere that didn’t smell like coal and regret. But as he twisted the cap off, the faint chemical tang rising from the water, his gut twisted again. Too late to back out now.
A few units down, Maddie was settling into 5C, her own space a mirror of Jake’s—same gray furniture, same sealed windows, same eerie quiet that pressed against her ears. She set her backpack on the bed, the springs creaking under the weight, and pulled out the recorder. Her fingers trembled, just for a second, as she played back the first few minutes from intake. Static mostly, then voices—Wren’s clipped announcements, the murmur of volunteers, the squeak of boots on polished floors. Nothing damning yet, but she hadn’t expected it on day one. She tucked the device under the mattress, wedging it between the frame and the springs, and sat on the edge of the bed. The room felt too small, the walls too close, and the air carried that same sweet undertone she couldn’t place. Her wristband buzzed, a faint pulse against her skin, and she glanced at it. A message scrolled across the tiny screen: Dinner at 1800. Attendance required.
She exhaled, breath catching in her throat, and rubbed her hands together to shake off the unease. This was her chance—her big story, the one that could crack Nexagen open for the world to see. But as she stood, grabbing her hoodie to head to the dining hall, the wristband buzzed again, sharper this time, like a warning. She froze, one hand on the doorframe, the cold metal grounding her for a moment. Outside, the courtyard was empty, the gravel paths stretching under sodium lights that cast long, jagged shadows. Something moved at the edge of her vision—quick, too quick to catch—and her pulse spiked. Probably just another volunteer. Had to be. Still, her hand lingered on the doorframe, knuckles pale, as she squinted into the half-dark, waiting for whatever was out there to move again.
Maddie’s breath hung shallow in her chest, a tight knot of anticipation as she stared into the courtyard. The sodium lights buzzed overhead, their hum a constant low drone that burrowed into her skull. The shadow—or whatever it was—didn’t move again. Just a trick of the light, she told herself, though her fingers stayed clamped on the doorframe, the cold metal biting into her palm. The air out there smelled faintly of damp earth and pine, carried on a breeze that slipped through the cracked window behind her. She forced her hand to relax, dropped it to her side, and stepped out, pulling the door shut with a soft click that echoed too loud in the stillness.
The gravel crunched under her sneakers, each step deliberate as she crossed the courtyard toward the dining hall. The wristband pulsed again, a steady rhythm now, like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers. She glanced down, the screen glowing faintly: Reminder: Dinner at 1800. Attendance required. The words felt heavier this time, less like an invitation and more like a tether. She shook her wrist as if she could shake off the feeling, but the vibration lingered in her bones. The paths were lined with low hedges, trimmed to surgical neatness, their edges catching the light in sharp, unnatural angles. Beyond them, the modular housing units sat in perfect rows, their white exteriors gleaming like teeth under the lamps. Too clean. Too quiet. Not a single curtain twitched, not a single voice carried. Two hundred people, and it felt like she was the only one here.
Halfway across, her foot caught on something—a loose stone, maybe—and she stumbled, catching herself with a hand on the hedge. The leaves were waxy, slick under her fingers, and they left a faint residue on her skin, sticky and cool. She wiped it on her hoodie, frowning, and kept moving. The dining hall loomed ahead, a squat glass-and-steel structure at the center of New Eden, its windows glowing amber from within. Laughter spilled out, faint but real, a sound that should’ve eased her but instead made her stomach twist. It sounded rehearsed, like a recording played on loop. She stopped a few paces from the entrance, her reflection staring back at her from the glass door. Her face looked wrong—too pale, eyes too wide, like she’d seen something she couldn’t name. She blinked hard, forcing the image away, and pushed through.
Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of roasted chicken and something sweeter, artificial, like vanilla pumped through the vents. Long tables stretched across the room, covered in white cloths, each place setting identical—fork, knife, spoon, napkin folded into a crisp triangle. Volunteers milled about, some already seated, others clustering near a buffet line where staff in crisp Nexagen polos dished out portions with mechanical smiles. Maddie’s eyes darted, scanning faces, cataloging details. A woman with a tight bun and a nervous tic in her jaw. A guy in a flannel shirt, mid-thirties, laughing too loud as he clapped another man on the back. A teenager, barely eighteen, staring at his plate like it might bite him. Two hundred stories, and she needed the one that would blow this place wide open.
She slid into a seat near the edge of the room, close to a wall of windows that looked out on the courtyard. Her wristband buzzed again, softer now, and she ignored it, pulling her hoodie sleeves down over her hands. The chair was cold through her jeans, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones and stays. Across the table, a man dropped into the seat opposite her, his tray clattering as he set it down. He was broad-shouldered, rough around the edges, with a jawline shadowed by stubble and hands scarred from years of work. His eyes flicked to her, quick and assessing, before dropping to his food.
“Didn’t see you at orientation,” he said, voice low, gravelly, as he speared a piece of chicken with his fork. He didn’t look at her again, just chewed, slow and deliberate.
Maddie’s fingers tightened around the edge of her tray. “Got in late. Missed the pep talk.” Her tone was sharp, clipped, a reflex to keep people at arm’s length. She didn’t need friends here. She needed answers.
He grunted, still not looking up. “Name’s Jake. You?”
“Maddie.” She hesitated, then added, “You been here long?”
“Day before you, I reckon. Long enough to know the food’s too good.” He gestured at his plate with his fork, a smear of mashed potatoes clinging to the tines. “Ain’t nobody feedin’ folks like this for free. Not in a place like this.”
Her pulse ticked up, but she kept her face neutral, leaning back in her chair. “What’s that mean?”
Jake’s eyes met hers then, dark and steady, like he was peeling back her skin to see what was underneath. “Means I worked coal ‘round here before it all went bust. This town—New Eden, whatever they call it now—ain’t never been right. Ground’s got a way of takin’ more than you give it.” He paused, then dropped his gaze, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “But the pay’s good. So here I am.”
She wanted to press him, to dig into whatever history he was carrying, but a chime cut through the room, sharp and synthetic, echoing off the glass walls. Heads turned as a woman in a tailored blazer stepped onto a small platform at the far end of the hall. Her hair was pulled back tight, her smile polished to a gleam, and her voice carried through a lapel mic with the kind of authority that made you sit straighter.
“Good evening, New Eden family,” she began, hands clasped in front of her. “I’m Dr. Wren Calloway, chief medical officer for Nexagen Corporation, and I’m thrilled to welcome you to the start of something extraordinary. Tonight is about community, about connection, and about the shared purpose that brought you here. Let’s eat, let’s talk, and let’s begin.”
The room erupted in applause, a wave of sound that felt too synchronized, too eager. Maddie’s hands stayed on her lap, her jaw tight as she watched Wren step down, her smile never faltering as she moved through the crowd, shaking hands, nodding like a politician on a campaign trail. Something about her felt off—too perfect, too composed, like she’d been programmed to exude trust. Maddie’s gaze flicked to Jake, who was watching Wren too, his fork still in his hand, untouched now. His expression was unreadable, but his knuckles were white around the utensil.
“Shared purpose,” Maddie muttered under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear. “What’s yours?”
Jake didn’t answer right away. He set the fork down, slow, deliberate, and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Needed the money. Needed a way out. Didn’t think too hard ‘bout the rest.” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “You?”
She smirked, deflecting. “Guess I’m just curious.”
He didn’t buy it. She could see it in the way his brow creased, the way his eyes lingered on her like he was waiting for the lie to crack. But before he could push, a staff member approached their table, a young guy in a Nexagen polo, clipboard in hand. His smile was tight, practiced, and his nametag read Ethan.
“Evening, folks,” Ethan said, voice bright but strained at the edges. “Just checking in. You both had your initial wellness scans today, right?”
Maddie nodded, though her stomach turned at the memory of the cold exam room, the hum of machines, the way the tech had stared at her vitals like they were a puzzle to solve. “Yeah. All good.”
Jake just grunted, his jaw working like he was chewing on something bitter. Ethan scribbled something on his clipboard, then tapped Maddie’s wristband with a stylus. “Looks like your hydration levels are a bit low. Make sure to drink up—the water stations have our custom blend. It’s got everything you need.” His smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’re all about optimization here.”
She forced a nod, her fingers brushing the wristband as Ethan moved on to the next table. Optimization. The word stuck to her like damp cloth, heavy and wrong. She glanced at the water pitcher on the table, the liquid inside catching the light, almost shimmering. Jake hadn’t touched his glass either, she noticed. His plate was still half-full, his posture rigid, like he was waiting for something to drop.
“You gonna drink that?” she asked, nodding at his glass.
He snorted, a rough sound that didn’t match the tension in his shoulders. “Tastes funny. Like they put sugar in it or somethin’.” He pushed the glass away, the base scraping against the tablecloth. “Ain’t trustin’ nothin’ I can’t see the source of.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t push. Instead, she reached for her own glass, lifting it to her lips, letting the rim hover just close enough to smell. It wasn’t sugar. It was something else, sweeter, almost floral, like the undertone she’d caught in her room earlier. She set it back down, untouched, her pulse thrumming in her ears.
The room grew louder as people ate, the clink of cutlery and murmur of voices blending into a dull roar. Maddie’s attention kept drifting to Wren, who was now seated at a table near the platform, surrounded by other Nexagen staff. Her posture was impeccable, her hands folded neatly as she listened to a man in a suit gesture animatedly. But every so often, Wren’s gaze would sweep the room, clinical and cold, like she was cataloging every face, every movement. When her eyes landed on Maddie’s table, they lingered a fraction too long, and Maddie felt the weight of that stare like a physical touch, icy and invasive. She looked away, focusing on her plate, her appetite gone.
Jake shifted in his seat, his voice cutting through her thoughts. “You see the way she looks at us? Like we’re rats in a cage.”
Maddie’s fingers twitched, itching for her recorder, but she kept her hands still. “Maybe we are.” She kept her tone light, testing him, seeing how far he’d go.
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smirk. Just stared at her, hard, until she felt exposed. “If you’re here to poke around, you best be careful. Folks like her—folks like Nexagen—don’t take kindly to questions. Seen it before. Down in the mines, you learn quick who’s got power and who don’t.”
Her throat tightened, but she held his gaze. “I can handle myself.”
“Doubt it,” he said, blunt, and stood, tray in hand. “Watch your back, Maddie. Somethin’ ain’t right here, and it ain’t just the water.”
He walked off before she could respond, leaving her alone at the table, the noise of the room pressing in around her. Her wristband buzzed again, insistent now, and she glanced at it, the screen flashing: Post-dinner briefing. Rec Center. 1900. She exhaled, sharp and frustrated, and rubbed her wrist, the skin underneath already raw from the constant vibration. The air in the dining hall felt heavier now, the vanilla scent cloying, sticking to the back of her throat. She pushed her chair back, the legs scraping loud enough to draw a few glances, and headed for the door, needing air, needing space.
Outside, the courtyard was darker, the sodium lights dimmed to a faint glow. The gravel bit into her soles as she walked, aimless at first, until she found herself near the edge of the housing units, where the paths tapered off into a stretch of uneven ground. Beyond it, she could just make out the silhouette of the old mine entrance, boarded up but still looming, a scar on the landscape. The air was colder here, carrying the sharp tang of rust and something deeper, something ancient, like wet stone left to rot. She stopped, her breath fogging in front of her, and squinted at the boards, half-expecting to see something move again, like earlier.
Her wristband buzzed, harder this time, almost painful, and she cursed under her breath, slapping at it. The screen read: Rec Center. Now. But she didn’t move. Not yet. Something about the mine pulled at her, a tug she couldn’t shake, like a sound just out of reach. She took a step closer, then another, until the ground underfoot turned from gravel to dirt, soft and uneven. The boards were old, splintered, with gaps wide enough to see into the black beyond. She crouched, her fingers brushing the edge of one, the wood rough and damp against her skin. Inside, the darkness seemed to pulse, or maybe that was just her heartbeat, loud in her ears.
A sound cut through the silence—low, guttural, like a breath drawn through broken teeth. It came from the mine, or maybe from behind her, she couldn’t tell. Her hand jerked back, her balance faltering, and she fell onto her knees, the dirt cold and wet through her jeans. Her chest heaved, eyes darting, searching the dark for the source. Nothing. Just the wind, she told herself, though it didn’t move the hedges, didn’t stir the air. Her wristband buzzed again, relentless, and she scrambled to her feet, backing away, her sneakers slipping on the loose earth.
She turned to head for the Rec Center, her pulse hammering, when she saw it—a shape at the edge of the courtyard, half-hidden by the shadow of a housing unit. Tall, too still, watching. Not a trick of the light this time. Her mouth went dry, her hands curling into fists at her sides as she froze, torn between running and standing her ground. The shape didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, but she felt it, the weight of its attention, heavy as a stone on her chest. The wristband buzzed once more, sharp enough to sting, and the screen flashed red: Immediate attendance required. Her eyes flicked down for a split second, and when she looked up, the shape was gone.
But the feeling wasn’t. It clung to her, cold and slick, as she forced herself to walk toward the Rec Center, every step heavier than the last, the mine’s darkness at her back like a living thing, waiting.
Maddie’s sneakers crunched on the gravel path, each step a deliberate act against the urge to bolt. The Rec Center loomed ahead, a squat, modern building with glass walls that reflected the pale sodium glow of the courtyard lights. Her wristband pulsed again, a sharp jab against her skin, and she clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to rip it off. Whatever Nexagen wanted, it wasn’t optional. The air bit at her cheeks, crisp and thin, carrying the faint tang of coal dust that never seemed to leave this place, no matter how polished the surfaces. Her breath fogged in front of her, quick and shallow, as she scanned the shadows between the housing units. Empty. Or so she told herself. But that weight—the feeling of being tracked—stuck to her like damp cloth, chilling her spine.
She reached the Rec Center’s entrance, the automatic doors hissing open with a sterile whoosh. Inside, the air was warmer, artificial, smelling of lemon cleaner and recycled ventilation. The lobby was bright, too bright, white walls and tiled floors reflecting the overhead fluorescents. A dozen other volunteers milled about, some clutching tablets, others sipping from Nexagen-branded water bottles, their faces a mix of boredom and vague unease. Maddie’s eyes darted to the corners, to the ceiling where tiny black domes housed cameras, their lenses glinting like insect eyes. She forced her hands to relax, to stop trembling, as she joined the crowd, her recorder tucked deep in her jacket pocket, still running. Always running.
“Chen, Madeline,” a voice clipped over the intercom, synthetic and genderless. “Report to Conference Room B. Immediate.”
Her stomach twisted. She’d been here less than a week, and already they knew her moves better than she did. The wristband buzzed again, a reminder she didn’t need. She pushed through the crowd, ignoring the sideways glances, the murmurs that trailed her like a draft. The hallway to Conference Room B was narrower, the lighting dimmer, the walls lined with framed posters of smiling faces and slogans like New Eden: Wellness Redefined. Her reflection flickered in the glass as she passed, and she avoided looking too long, her own eyes feeling foreign in that split-second glimpse.
The door to B was already open, a man in a crisp Nexagen polo standing just inside, clipboard in hand. He was mid-thirties, pale, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Miss Chen,” he said, gesturing to a chair at a long, polished table. “Please, have a seat.”
She did, though every muscle in her body screamed to stay standing, to keep an exit in sight. The room smelled of new carpet and stale coffee, the air conditioner humming low and steady. Two other volunteers sat across from her, a woman with tight curls and a man with a patchy beard, both staring at their hands like they’d been caught stealing. Maddie’s fingers brushed the edge of her jacket pocket, feeling the recorder’s weight, its tiny red light hidden but active. She kept her face neutral, her voice steady. “What’s this about?”
The man—his name tag read Greg, Wellness Coordinator—didn’t answer right away. He tapped something on his tablet, the screen’s glow casting sharp shadows across his jaw. “Just a routine check-in,” he said finally, his tone smooth as glass. “We’ve noticed some… irregularities in your biometrics. Elevated heart rate. Erratic sleep patterns. Care to explain?”
Her throat tightened, but she forced a shrug. “New place. Takes time to adjust. That’s all.”
Greg’s smile flickered, thin as a razor. “Of course. New Eden can be overwhelming at first. But we’re here to help.” He slid a small plastic cup across the table, filled with two pale blue pills. “These will stabilize your readings. Standard protocol.”
Maddie stared at the cup, the pills catching the light like dull marbles. Her wristband buzzed again, softer this time, almost encouraging. She didn’t move to take them. “I’m fine, really. Don’t need—”
“It’s not optional,” Greg cut in, his voice still polite but edged now, a blade under silk. “Part of the agreement you signed. We monitor. We adjust. For your safety, and everyone else’s.”
The woman across from her shifted, her chair scraping faintly against the floor. Her eyes met Maddie’s for a fraction of a second, wide and glassy, before dropping back to her lap. The man didn’t look up at all, his fingers twitching like he wanted to bolt but couldn’t find the will. Maddie’s hand hovered over the cup, her mind racing. Refuse, and they’d flag her. Comply, and who knew what those things would do. She’d read the fine print of the volunteer contract—pages of legalese about “proprietary wellness enhancements”—but this wasn’t in any clause she’d memorized.
“Miss Chen,” Greg said, leaning forward slightly, his clipboard tapping against the table. “We’re on the same team here. Let’s not make this difficult.”
Her fingers closed around the cup, the plastic cool against her skin. She tipped it back, letting the pills sit on her tongue for a moment, bitter and chalky, before tucking them under her lip with a practiced flick. She swallowed hard, empty, and set the cup down. “Done.”
Greg watched her, unblinking, for a beat too long. Then he nodded, marking something on his tablet. “Good. We’ll follow up tomorrow. You’re free to go.”
She stood, her legs unsteady, and moved for the door, the weight of his stare boring into her back. The hallway felt colder now, the posters’ smiles more like grimaces as she passed. She kept her pace even, her hand brushing her pocket again, the recorder still humming against her fingertips. She’d spit the pills out later, flush them, whatever it took. But for now, she needed to blend, to disappear into the routine until she could figure out what the hell was really going on.
The lobby was quieter when she returned, most of the volunteers dispersed. She headed for the exit, the glass doors hissing open again, letting in a gust of night air that smelled of damp earth and something sharper, metallic. She paused just outside, scanning the courtyard. No shapes this time, no shadows that didn’t belong. But the feeling lingered, a prickle at the base of her skull, like static before a storm. Her wristband was silent now, the screen dark, but she didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust any of this.
She started toward her housing unit, the gravel crunching underfoot, when a low voice cut through the quiet. “Hey. You okay?”
She spun, her heart slamming against her ribs. A man stood a few paces away, hands shoved deep in the pockets of a worn flannel jacket. He was broad-shouldered, rough around the edges, with a jawline shadowed by stubble and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much. Jake, she remembered. One of the miners who’d signed up for the payout. She’d seen him at orientation, keeping to himself, his laugh loud but rare.
“Yeah,” she said, forcing her shoulders to relax. “Just… long day.”
He nodded, stepping closer, his boots scuffing the ground. “Saw you comin’ out of there. Looked like they gave you the third degree. What’d they want?”
Her instinct was to deflect, to brush him off, but there was something in his tone—wary, not prying—that made her pause. “Routine stuff. Checking vitals. You?”
“Same. Gave me some pills. Didn’t take ‘em.” He tilted his head, studying her. “You neither, I’m guessin’.”
She didn’t answer, just held his gaze, her hand twitching toward her pocket before she caught herself. He didn’t push, just gave a small, crooked grin. “Smart. Don’t trust a damn thing they hand out. This place…” He trailed off, glancing toward the mine’s silhouette, a black scar against the night sky. “Ain’t what they’re sellin’.”
Her pulse quickened, but she kept her voice level. “What do you mean?”
Jake hesitated, his jaw working like he was chewing on the words before spitting them out. “Worked these hills my whole life. Coal’s got a way of takin’ more than you give. This company, Nexagen, they’re diggin’ for somethin’. Ain’t just data or whatever they claim. I feel it. In my bones. Somethin’ off.”
The air seemed to thicken around them, the silence pressing in, broken only by the faint hum of the courtyard lights. Maddie’s mind raced, piecing together fragments—her recorder picking up sounds she couldn’t hear, the shape in the shadows, the pills, Jake’s unease. She wanted to press him, to dig deeper, but not here, not where the cameras could catch every word, every glance.
“Careful who you say that to,” she said finally, her tone light but pointed. “Walls got ears around here.”
He grunted, a half-laugh, half-warning. “Don’t I know it. Just… watch your back, yeah? Don’t know you, but you don’t seem like the rest of ‘em. Sheep waitin’ for slaughter.”
The words hung between them, heavy and raw, and she felt that prickle again, sharper now, like a warning she couldn’t name. She nodded, once, and turned toward her unit, her steps quicker now, the gravel louder under her feet. Jake didn’t follow, but she felt his eyes on her until she rounded the corner, the housing block’s shadow swallowing her whole.
Her unit was small, clinical, all white walls and minimalist furniture that smelled of factory plastic. She locked the door behind her, double-checking the bolt, though it wouldn’t stop whatever was watching from outside—or whatever was wired into the walls themselves. The wristband stayed on, a cold weight she couldn’t shake, its screen still dark but somehow alive, waiting. She moved to the tiny bathroom, spitting the pills into the sink, watching them dissolve under a trickle of water, the blue dye staining the porcelain like spilled ink.
Her recorder came out next, the device warm from her pocket. She plugged it into her earbuds, sitting on the edge of the narrow bed, the mattress creaking under her weight. The audio from earlier played back, her own footsteps on gravel, the wind that wasn’t wind, and then—there it was again. That sound. Low, almost subsonic, a vibration more felt than heard, like a tuning fork struck deep in the earth. It wasn’t coming from the courtyard, not from the mine’s visible edge. It was under her, beneath the polished streets of New Eden, a pulse that didn’t belong to anything human.
She yanked the buds out, her hands shaking, and tucked the recorder under her pillow, a child’s hiding spot but the best she had. Her reflection caught her eye in the small mirror above the dresser, her face pale, her eyes too wide, too searching. She looked away, fast, the memory of Jake’s words clawing at her—somethin’ off. She didn’t sleep that night, not really, just lay there with the lights on, listening to the hum of the building, the faint drip of the sink, waiting for a sound she couldn’t name but knew was coming.
Across town, in the sterile heart of Nexagen’s administrative hub, Dr. Wren Calloway sat at her desk, the glow of her monitor casting harsh lines across her face. The air in her office was cold, always cold, the vents hissing softly above her. She scrolled through the latest biometric data, rows of numbers and graphs that should have been reassuring—heart rates, sleep cycles, cortisol levels, all within acceptable ranges for a community of 200. But her fingers paused over one file, then another, her brow creasing as she noted the spikes, the anomalies that shouldn’t exist in a controlled environment.
Volunteer 47, Jake Sutter. Elevated dopamine. Adrenaline off the charts, but no corresponding stress markers. He was thriving, physically, better than he should be after years in the mines. Too good. She tapped a note into the system, flagging it for review, though she knew Drexler would dismiss it as a positive outlier. Her gaze shifted to Volunteer 112, Madeline Chen. Heart rate erratic, sleep fragmented, but no reported complaints. Wren’s lips pressed thin. She’d seen the footage from the courtyard, the way Chen froze, the way her eyes darted to shadows that weren’t there. Not yet.
She leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking, and rubbed at her temples, the faint ache there a constant now. The water on her desk sat untouched, the Nexagen bottle gleaming under the desk lamp. She didn’t drink it, hadn’t since the first week, though she couldn’t say why. Just a feeling, a nagging doubt that grew with each pristine report, each perfect smile from the volunteers. New Eden was her project, her proof that science could rebuild what industry had broken. But tonight, staring at the data, she felt the first crack in that belief, small but sharp, like a splinter under skin.
Her comm buzzed, Drexler’s name flashing across the screen. She hesitated, then answered, her voice clipped. “Calloway.”
“Wren,” came his reply, smooth and warm, the kind of voice that sold hope by the gallon. “Just checking in. First week metrics look stellar. You should be proud.”
She glanced at the screen again, at Chen’s file, Sutter’s. “There are… discrepancies. Small, but consistent. I’d like to run secondary tests on a few subjects.”
A pause, brief but heavy. “No need,” Drexler said, his tone unchanged. “We’re on track. Focus on the big picture. The board’s thrilled.”
Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t push. Not yet. “Understood.”
“Good. I’ll be on-site in a few days. We’ll discuss then.” The line clicked off, leaving her with the hum of the vents, the cold weight of unspoken questions. She turned back to the data, her fingers hovering over the keyboard, but her eyes caught on something else—her reflection in the monitor’s edge. Tired, yes, but something else. A hollowness she couldn’t name, staring back.
Outside, beyond the admin hub, beyond the housing units and the Rec Center’s glass walls, the mine sat silent under the moonless sky. But deep within its gut, where no light reached, something stirred. Not a sound, not a shape, but a presence, ancient and patient, threading through the coal seams like roots through soil. It felt the 200 above, their warmth, their thoughts, their fragile shells of self. It had waited long enough. And now, with the first tendrils of connection—Sutter’s impossible strength, Chen’s unheard recordings, Calloway’s creeping doubt—it began to feed.
Not with teeth, not with hunger as humans knew it. But with absence, a slow unraveling, taking what made them whole and leaving the husk behind. The first thread tightened, imperceptible, around a single volunteer asleep in his unit, his dreams draining into the dark. By morning, he would wake, or seem to, his eyes open but empty, his voice a hollow echo of what it was. And New Eden, for all its clean surfaces, would never be the same.