The Hollowed / Season 1, Episode 2
Vibrations of New Eden
Jake Sutter’s boots hit the polished floor of the New Eden cafeteria with a dull thud, the sound swallowed by the hum of two hundred voices bouncing off the high, glass-paneled walls. He’s mid-step, tray in hand, a heap of mashed potatoes and some kind of glazed chicken steaming faintly under the fluorescent lights. The air smells of industrial cleaner and warm gravy, sharp and sweet in a way that clings to the back of his throat. His wristband—sleek, black, unremovable—vibrates once, a silent nudge to keep moving down the line. He doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t need to. It’s been buzzing every few minutes since he woke up, like a cattle prod without the sting, just the reminder: you’re watched, you’re tracked, keep to the schedule.
“Man, you gotta try this stuff,” a guy ahead of him says, turning halfway, his tray wobbling as he gestures at a bowl of bright green pudding. His name’s Carl, mid-forties, ex-mechanic from Morgantown, one of the first Jake talked to when they rolled in yesterday. Carl’s got a grin like he just won the lottery, eyes wide and glassy under the lights. “Tastes like lime, but, like, better. They put somethin’ in it, I swear. Makes your head feel clear.”
Jake grunts, shifting his weight. His knees ache, an old miner’s habit, even though he hasn’t been underground in three years. “Yeah? Clear how?” He keeps his voice low, rough, like he’s just asking to pass the time. But his eyes flick to Carl’s face, searching for something—anything—that isn’t right. He’s been feeling it himself since last night. Not clear, exactly. More like… sharp. Too sharp. Like his nerves are dialed up to eleven, every sound a little louder, every touch a little heavier. He slept four hours and woke feeling like he’d run a marathon, heart pounding for no damn reason.
Carl laughs, a short bark, and scoops another spoonful of the pudding straight into his mouth, not even waiting to sit. “Like… I dunno, man. Like I could count every crack in the sidewalk outside if I wanted to. Haven’t felt this good since I was twenty.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing a streak of green across his knuckles. “You take your pills this morning?”
Jake’s grip tightens on the tray, the plastic edges biting into his palms. The pills. Little white capsules, three of them, sitting in a tiny paper cup on his nightstand when he got to his room last night. No label, no explanation, just a note in crisp black ink: Morning dose, 7:00 AM. Vital for program compliance. He’d stared at them for a good ten minutes, the clock on the wall ticking louder than it should’ve, before he tipped them into his mouth and swallowed dry. Ten grand a month. That’s what he told himself. Ten grand to not ask questions. “Yeah,” he mutters now, stepping forward as the line moves. “Took ‘em.”
Carl nods, still grinning, and turns back to the counter for a glass of water. Jake’s eyes linger on the back of the guy’s neck, on the way the skin there looks too smooth, almost waxy under the lights. He shakes it off, tells himself it’s nothing, just the weird vibe of this place. New Eden. That’s what they call it, like it’s some kind of paradise and not a ghost town slapped with a fresh coat of paint. The cafeteria’s all modern angles and gleaming surfaces, but he can still smell the coal dust in the air, faint and bitter, like it’s baked into the walls from decades ago. He knows these hills. Knows what they hide. And no amount of glass and chrome can cover that up.
He finds a seat at a long table near the back, away from the clusters of volunteers already chattering like they’ve known each other for years. The chicken’s tender, almost too tender, falling apart under his fork before he even presses down. He eats mechanically, chewing slow, tasting the glaze—something citrus, something chemical. His wristband buzzes again, twice this time, and a soft voice crackles through a hidden speaker in the ceiling. “Reminder: Group Orientation, Main Hall, 9:00 AM. Attendance mandatory.” The voice is female, calm, clipped, like a flight attendant reading a script. Jake glances at the clock on the far wall. 8:47. He shovels another bite, faster now, the ache in his knees spreading up to his hips like a warning.
Across the room, Maddie Chen sits with her tray balanced on her lap, a notebook open beside her, pen moving in quick, tight strokes. She’s got her earbuds in, but they’re not plugged into anything—just for show, a reason to keep her head down and her eyes sharp. The recorder’s in her pocket, a slim black device no bigger than a pack of gum, running silent, picking up every word, every scrape of a fork, every half-laugh from the people around her. She’s already got three hours of audio since last night, most of it useless—small talk, footsteps, the hum of the air conditioning in her room. But she listens anyway, rewinds in her head, sifts for the cracks. Something’s off here. She felt it the second the bus rolled through the gates, past the razor wire disguised as decorative fencing, past the Nexagen logo etched into every surface like a brand.
Her table’s near the center, surrounded by volunteers, most of them younger than her, all of them too eager, too loud. A girl with pink streaks in her hair—Kayla, maybe—leans over, her elbow brushing Maddie’s arm. The contact sends a jolt through her, not pain, just… something. Too much. Like static, but deeper. “Hey, you’re the quiet one, huh? Where you from?” Kayla’s chewing gum, the snap of it loud in Maddie’s ear, the mint smell sharp enough to cut through the cafeteria’s haze of food and bleach.
Maddie forces a smile, small, practiced, the kind that says I’m friendly but not too friendly. “Philly,” she lies, her voice even, almost bored. “Just needed a change, y’know?” She flips a page in her notebook, doodling a spiral in the margin to keep her hands busy. Her real story’s buried deep—investigative reporter, two years freelancing for underground outlets, a tip about Nexagen’s “wellness experiments” that led her to forge an identity and sign up as a volunteer. She’s here for the dirt, the kind of story that breaks careers and companies. But right now, she’s just another face, another body in a sea of bodies, all of them wearing the same gray Nexagen-issued hoodies, all of them tagged with wristbands that hum like tiny hearts.
Kayla pops her gum again, nodding like she’s satisfied. “Cool, cool. I’m from Charleston. Never thought I’d end up back in the sticks, but ten K a month? I’d live in a dumpster for that.” She laughs, high and grating, and Maddie nods along, her pen still moving, her ears still sifting. Under the table, her fingers brush the recorder through her pocket, a quick check to make sure it’s still there, still running. She’s already noticed the cameras—tiny black domes in every corner, blinking red at odd intervals. And the water. Everyone drinks it, straight from the pitchers on every table, clear and cold, but it leaves a faint aftertaste, like metal, like medicine. She’s been sticking to the sealed bottles in her room, just in case.
At 8:55, the cafeteria starts to empty, trays clattering into bins, chairs scraping against the floor, the buzz of conversation shifting to a low murmur as people head for the Main Hall. Maddie tucks her notebook under her arm, slips the pen into her sleeve, and joins the flow, her sneakers silent on the polished tile. She keeps her head tilted down, but her eyes dart, catching details—the way a guy near the door rubs his wrist where the band sits, the way a woman’s hands tremble as she stacks her tray, the way the air feels thicker near the exits, like it’s pushing back. Her recorder hums against her thigh, a secret weight, and she wonders, not for the first time, what it’s picking up that she can’t hear.
In the Main Hall, Dr. Wren Calloway stands at the edge of the stage, her clipboard pressed against her chest like a shield. The room is cavernous, all white walls and recessed lighting, the kind of sterile space that makes every sound echo just a little too long. She’s early—always is—watching the volunteers file in, their gray hoodies blending into a monochrome wave. Her own attire is crisp, a navy blazer over a white blouse, her hair pulled back tight enough to pull at her scalp. She smells the faint tang of antiseptic on her hands, a remnant from the lab this morning, where she’d run the first set of vitals on a random sample of participants. Heart rates slightly elevated across the board. Blood pressure trending high. Nothing alarming, not yet, but enough to make her jaw clench when she logged the data.
She adjusts her glasses, the frames cold against her nose, and scans the crowd. Two hundred faces, most of them still bright, still hopeful, though a few carry that hollowed-out look she’s seen too often in her career—people who’ve signed up for something they don’t fully understand, chasing a paycheck or a promise. Her gaze lingers on a man near the back, broad-shouldered, late twenties or early thirties, his face set in a hard line as he leans against the wall. Jake Sutter, she remembers, pulling his file from memory. Former miner, local, no medical red flags. But there’s something in the way he stands, the way his eyes don’t quite meet anyone else’s, that sets her on edge. She makes a mental note to check his vitals personally later. Intuition, she tells herself. Not paranoia.
The clock above the stage hits 9:00, and the last stragglers slip through the doors, which close with a soft, hydraulic hiss. Wren steps to the podium, her heels clicking against the hardwood, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. She taps the microphone once, twice, the feedback a brief screech that makes a few volunteers flinch. “Good morning,” she starts, her voice steady, trained to carry without strain. “Welcome to day two of the New Eden Wellness Program. I’m Dr. Calloway, your chief medical officer. Today, we’ll cover the core protocols, expectations, and benefits of your participation with Nexagen Corporation.”
She pauses, letting the words settle, her eyes sweeping the room. Most are attentive, nodding, some even taking notes. But Jake Sutter, still at the back, hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked, his arms crossed tight over his chest. And near the middle, a young woman—Maddie Chen, her file flashes in Wren’s mind—sits with her head tilted just so, like she’s listening for something beyond the words. Wren’s fingers tighten on the podium’s edge, the wood smooth and cool under her grip. She pushes forward, detailing the daily schedule—meals, group activities, bi-weekly checkups, the importance of compliance with the supplement regimen. Her voice doesn’t waver, but her mind does, flicking back to the lab this morning, to the data she didn’t log. The faint tremor in her own hands when she held the syringe. The way the air in the sublevel felt wrong, heavy, like it was watching her.
Jake, still against the wall, feels the buzz of his wristband again, sharper this time, almost a pinch. He shifts, rubbing at the spot, the skin there red and warm despite the hall’s chill. Dr. Calloway’s voice drones on, all polished edges and careful phrasing, but he’s not listening. He’s watching the room, the way the lights seem to flicker at the corners of his vision, the way the walls—white and spotless—seem to curve inward just a fraction if he stares too long. His chest feels tight, not pain, not yet, just pressure, like something’s sitting on his ribs. He tells himself it’s the pills, the weird food, the fact that he’s in a room with two hundred strangers and no way out. The gates are locked, he remembers from yesterday, not with chains but with keypads and guards who smile too wide. Ten grand a month, he repeats in his head, a mantra against the itch under his skin. Ten grand to not think too hard.
Maddie, seated now, feels the weight of the recorder in her pocket like an anchor. She’s scribbling nonsense in her notebook—random words, shapes, anything to keep her hands moving—while her ears strain for the subtext in Calloway’s speech. The woman’s tone is too perfect, too controlled, like she’s reciting lines she doesn’t fully believe. Maddie notices the way Calloway’s fingers grip the podium, the way her gaze keeps darting to the back of the room, to the exits, to nothing. There’s a crack there, she thinks, a fissure she can pry open if she’s careful. Her own wristband hums, a faint vibration, and she resists the urge to scratch at it, to peel it off and see what’s underneath. Instead, she shifts in her seat, letting her elbow brush the woman next to her, testing for that static again, that jolt. It’s there, fainter this time, but real. Her pen pauses mid-stroke, her breath catching just enough to notice. Something’s building here, something she can’t name yet, but it’s in the air, in the walls, in the way the room feels like it’s holding its breath.
Wren finishes her speech, stepping back from the podium as a Nexagen rep—some suit with a tablet and a fake smile—takes over to discuss “community bonding exercises.” She moves to the side of the stage, clipboard still clutched tight, her pulse a steady thrum in her neck. She’s supposed to stay for the full session, to answer questions, to reassure. But her eyes keep finding Jake Sutter, still unmoving, his face a mask of quiet unease. And Maddie Chen, whose scribbling has stopped, whose head is now tilted like she’s caught a scent. Wren’s hand slips into her blazer pocket, brushing the edge of a keycard she shouldn’t have, one that opens doors she’s not supposed to open. Not yet. Her thumb traces the raised logo on the card, the Nexagen emblem, and for a moment, she wonders if the tremor in her fingers is from the cold or something else. Something deeper. Something waiting.
Wren’s thumb lingers on the keycard, the plastic edge biting into her skin just enough to ground her. The auditorium hums with the low buzz of volunteers shifting in their seats, the Nexagen rep droning on about “synergy through shared spaces.” His voice is a polished hum, all corporate gloss, but it doesn’t mask the faint creak of the folding chairs or the way the air feels too sterile, like it’s been scrubbed of anything human. She forces her hand out of her pocket, smoothing her blazer with a practiced motion, but her gaze keeps snagging on Jake Sutter. He’s still in the third row, slouched low, one boot scuffing the polished floor in a slow, restless rhythm. His eyes are half-lidded, but they’re not lazy—they’re sharp, cutting through the room like he’s waiting for something to break.
Beside him, Maddie Chen hasn’t moved since her pen stopped. Her notebook rests on her lap, one hand curled around it like a shield, the other pressed flat against the armrest. Her head is still tilted, just slightly, ear toward the back wall where the HVAC vent hums a little too loud. Wren’s seen that look before—patients in the ER, right after a trauma, when they’re trying to piece together what just hit them. Maddie’s not dazed, though. She’s hunting. Wren’s chest tightens, a quick, sharp pinch she can’t attribute to the recycled air or the too-tight collar of her blouse. She shouldn’t care this much. She’s not supposed to. Her job is data, oversight, compliance. Not intuition. Not gut feelings. But the keycard in her pocket feels heavier now, like it’s pulling her somewhere she can’t afford to go.
The rep finishes his spiel, flashing a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, and gestures for questions. Hands go up, tentative at first—mostly older volunteers, their voices wavering as they ask about meal schedules or internet access. Wren’s supposed to step forward now, play the reassuring doctor, nod and smile and repeat the script about Nexagen’s commitment to their well-being. Instead, she stays rooted to the side of the stage, her clipboard a useless weight against her hip. Jake doesn’t raise his hand. Neither does Maddie. But their stillness feels louder than the murmurs filling the room, a silent current cutting through the noise.
“Dr. Calloway?” The rep’s voice slices through her thoughts, smooth as a scalpel. He’s looking at her now, tablet cradled in one hand, eyebrows raised just enough to signal impatience. “Perhaps you’d like to address the group on the health monitoring protocols?”
Her mouth opens before her brain catches up, the response automatic. “Of course.” She steps forward, heels clicking against the stage, the sound too sharp in the hollow space. The volunteers’ faces turn to her, a sea of cautious hope, and she hates how easy it is to lie to them. “As part of our program, each of you will undergo weekly biometric scans. These are non-invasive, just a quick check of vitals—heart rate, blood oxygen, basic markers. Your wristbands will also track activity and sleep patterns, ensuring we can tailor the supplements to your individual needs.”
She pauses, scanning the room, her gaze snagging on Jake again. His jaw is tight now, one hand rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to work out a knot. He catches her looking, and for a split second, their eyes lock. There’s no question in his expression, no plea for reassurance—just a quiet, simmering distrust that makes her throat go dry. She forces herself to look away, finding Maddie instead. The journalist’s hand is moving again, slow, deliberate scratches in her notebook, but her eyes are still on the back wall, like she’s seeing through it.
“Any concerns, you can bring directly to me or any member of the medical team,” Wren continues, her voice steady even as her pulse isn’t. “We’re here to ensure your safety and comfort throughout the experiment.”
“Experiment.” The word slips out of Jake, low and rough, not a question but a statement. It cuts through the room like a dropped tool in a quiet mine, heavy and unavoidable. Heads turn, a ripple of unease spreading through the volunteers. Wren’s fingers tighten on the clipboard, the edges digging into her palm.
“Study,” she corrects, her tone clipped, professional. “A wellness study. Our goal is to improve quality of life through targeted interventions.”
Jake doesn’t nod, doesn’t look away. His boot stops scuffing the floor, and the silence from him feels louder than his voice did. The rep steps in smoothly, laughing it off with a line about “semantics” and “exciting opportunities,” but the air in the room has shifted, thickened. Wren feels it in her chest, a pressure she can’t exhale. She steps back, letting the rep take over again, her thumb brushing the keycard in her pocket once more. She shouldn’t have it. She knows that. It was a slip, a moment of weakness—or maybe curiosity—when she lifted it from Drexler’s office during his last visit. Access to the lower levels, the ones not on any volunteer map, the ones even most staff don’t know about. She tells herself she’ll return it before anyone notices. She tells herself a lot of things.
The session drags on, the rep guiding the group through a schedule of team-building exercises—trust falls and group hikes, as if this is summer camp and not a controlled trial. Wren’s attention keeps splintering, darting between Jake’s restless stillness and Maddie’s hyper-focused stare. When the volunteers are finally dismissed, they shuffle out in clusters, murmuring about the cafeteria or their assigned bunks. Jake lingers, standing slowly, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jacket. He doesn’t look at her as he heads for the door, but she feels the weight of his presence anyway, like a shadow she can’t shake.
Maddie’s the last to leave, her notebook tucked under one arm, her steps deliberate as she passes the stage. She doesn’t acknowledge Wren, but her gaze flicks briefly to the side, catching the faint tremor in Wren’s hand before she can hide it. Then she’s gone, disappearing into the corridor with the others, leaving Wren alone with the hum of the HVAC and the faint scent of disinfectant clinging to the air.
She should go back to her office. There are reports to file, data to review, emails from corporate she’s been dodging for two days. Instead, her feet carry her to the edge of the stage, where the auditorium lights cast long, sharp shadows across the empty seats. Her fingers close around the keycard again, and this time, she pulls it out, holding it up to the dim light. The Nexagen logo glints, a stylized double helix that always struck her as too perfect, too cold. She’s not supposed to have questions. She’s not supposed to feel the itch under her skin, the one that started when the first volunteer files crossed her desk—medical histories redacted, consent forms signed too quickly, baselines that didn’t add up. But the itch is there, and it’s growing, spreading like a rash she can’t scratch.
The auditorium door creaks behind her, and she startles, shoving the keycard back into her pocket. It’s just a maintenance worker, a middle-aged man in a gray jumpsuit, pushing a mop bucket across the threshold. He doesn’t look at her, just nods vaguely and keeps moving, the wheels of the bucket squeaking against the floor. But her heart is hammering now, too fast, too loud, and she can’t tell if it’s guilt or something else. Something waiting in the corners of this town, in the seams of the old mines, in the too-clean corridors of New Eden.
She leaves the auditorium, her heels clicking faster than they should, the sound echoing off the polished walls of the main facility. The air outside is crisp, biting at her cheeks as she steps into the courtyard. The sky above is a bruised gray, heavy with the promise of rain, and the town sprawls out before her—neat rows of modular housing units, a cafeteria with floor-to-ceiling windows, a rec center still under construction at the edge of the lot. It’s all too new, too pristine, the kind of place that feels like it was built yesterday and could be torn down tomorrow. Beyond the town’s perimeter, the old mine shafts loom, dark gashes in the hillside, boarded up but not forgotten. She’s never been down there. No one on her team has. That’s not their domain. But she’s seen the reports, the ones marked confidential, the ones that mention “resource extraction” in vague, sanitized terms. She’s always told herself it’s not her concern. Not her job.
Her office is in the medical wing, a sterile cube of glass and steel on the east side of the compound. She’s halfway there when she spots Jake again, leaning against the wall of the cafeteria, a cigarette dangling unlit from his lips. He’s alone, his jacket collar turned up against the wind, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the mine shafts cut into the earth. There’s a heaviness to him, a weariness that doesn’t match the clean-cut optimism of the other volunteers. She slows her pace without meaning to, her clipboard clutched tight against her chest like a shield.
“Shouldn’t smoke in the compound,” she says, her voice carrying across the courtyard before she can stop herself. It’s a stupid thing to say, a reflex born of protocol, and she regrets it the moment it leaves her mouth.
He doesn’t flinch, just rolls the cigarette between his fingers, his gaze still on the hills. “Ain’t lit,” he mutters, his voice rough as gravel, the kind of drawl that carries years of dust and hard shifts underground. “Just like holdin’ it. Feels familiar.”
She nods, though he’s not looking at her, and takes a step closer despite herself. The wind picks up, tugging at her blazer, carrying the faint, acrid tang of coal dust even here, in this scrubbed-clean mockery of a town. “You settling in alright?” she asks, the question sounding hollow even to her own ears.
He snorts, a short, bitter sound, and finally turns his head just enough to glance at her. His eyes are dark, shadowed, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. “Feels like a damn hotel. Too clean. Too quiet. Ain’t right for a place like this.”
Her lips press into a thin line, and she shifts her weight, the clipboard digging into her ribs. “It’s temporary. Six months, then you’re out. Ten grand a month buys a lot of discomfort.”
“Discomfort,” he echoes, the word tasting wrong in his mouth. He flicks the unlit cigarette to the ground, not out of spite but like he’s shedding a memory, and straightens up. “Ain’t about the beds or the food, Doc. Somethin’ else. You feel it too, don’t you?”
Her breath catches, just for a split second, and she forces her face to stay neutral, clinical. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
He steps closer, not threatening but close enough that she can smell the faint sweat on him, the lingering grit of a life spent underground. “Bullshit,” he says, low, almost a growl. “You’re walkin’ around with that clipboard like it’s a lifeline, but your hands shake. I seen it. You know somethin’ ain’t right here. Same as I do.”
Her pulse spikes, a sharp thud against her sternum, and she takes a half-step back, her heel catching on a crack in the pavement. She could deny it, brush him off, retreat to the safety of protocol and corporate doublespeak. But there’s something in his stare, something raw and unfiltered, that strips away her usual defenses. “I’m doing my job,” she says finally, her voice quieter than she means it to be. “Monitoring. Observing. If there’s a problem, I’ll find it.”
He doesn’t blink, doesn’t let her off the hook. “Better find it quick, then. ‘Cause whatever’s wrong here, it ain’t waitin’ on your reports.”
He turns away before she can respond, heading toward the housing units with a slow, deliberate stride, his shoulders hunched against the wind. She watches him go, her fingers tightening on the clipboard until the edges bite into her skin. The keycard in her pocket feels like a stone now, dragging her down, and for the first time since she signed on with Nexagen, she wonders if she’s in over her head. Not just with the study, not just with the volunteers, but with whatever’s buried here, under the polished surface of New Eden, under the old scars of the mine.
She doesn’t go to her office. Instead, she finds herself walking toward the medical wing’s restricted access door, the one that leads to the lower levels. The keycard burns a hole in her pocket, and her hand hovers over the scanner, trembling just enough to notice. There are cameras here, she knows that—small, blinking red lights tucked into the corners of the corridor, watching every move. If she swipes the card, there’s no going back. No plausible deniability. But Jake’s words are still in her head, rough and heavy, and so is the look on Maddie’s face in the auditorium, that sharp, searching focus. Something’s wrong here. She’s felt it for weeks, maybe longer, a creeping unease she’s tried to bury under data and duty. But it’s clawing its way up now, and she can’t ignore it anymore.
Her hand moves before her mind catches up, the keycard sliding through the scanner with a soft beep. The door clicks, a sound too loud in the empty corridor, and a rush of cold air spills out, carrying the faint, damp smell of stone and rust. Her heart slams against her ribs, and she glances over her shoulder, half-expecting to see someone—security, a colleague, Drexler himself—watching her. But the hallway is empty, the only sound the faint hum of the ventilation system and the distant patter of rain starting to fall outside.
She steps through the door, letting it close behind her with a heavy thud. The stairwell beyond is narrow, the walls concrete and unpainted, the fluorescent lights flickering just enough to make her skin crawl. Each step downward feels heavier, the air growing thicker, cooler, until she can taste the mineral tang of it on her tongue. She shouldn’t be here. She knows that. But the itch under her skin is a scream now, and she can’t stop, not until she sees what’s waiting at the bottom.
The stairwell ends at another door, this one unmarked, the metal dented and scratched like it’s seen years of use. There’s no scanner here, just a manual lock, and she hesitates, her hand hovering over the handle. The keycard won’t help her now, but there’s a spare key on the ring she carries for emergencies, one she’s never used. Her fingers fumble as she finds it, the metal cold against her palm, and the lock turns with a grinding click that echoes in the tight space.
The door swings open, revealing a long, dimly lit tunnel, the walls rough-hewn stone, the floor slick with damp. It’s not a lab, not a storage room—it’s a passage, raw and ancient, carved straight into the heart of the old mine. The air is heavy, oppressive, and there’s a sound now, faint but unmistakable, a low, rhythmic thrum that seems to come from the walls themselves. Her breath hitches, her hand finding the rough stone for balance, and she takes a step forward, then another, drawn by something she can’t name. The thrum grows louder, vibrating through her chest, and for the first time, she feels it—not just unease, not just doubt, but a bone-deep certainty that whatever Nexagen is doing here, it’s not wellness. It’s not science. It’s something else, something old and hungry, and she’s just walked straight into its jaws.
Maddie’s boots scrape against the damp stone floor, the sound swallowed by the tunnel’s suffocating quiet. Her hand lingers on the wall, rough and cold, the jagged edges biting into her palm as if testing her resolve. The thrum pulses deeper now, a heartbeat that isn’t hers, reverberating through the soles of her feet and up her spine. It’s not just sound—it’s pressure, a weight pressing against her ribs, making each breath shallow and sharp. The air down here smells of wet earth and something sharper, metallic, like the tang of blood or rust. She can’t tell which. Her flashlight beam wavers, cutting a thin path through the gloom, but the darkness seems to push back, thicker at the edges, like it’s alive.
She shouldn’t be here. Every instinct screams it, a primal tug at the base of her skull telling her to turn around, to lock the door behind her and pretend she never saw this place. But the recorder in her jacket pocket hums faintly, still running, capturing every rasp of her breath, every scuff of her step. It’s her tether, her proof. If she turns back now, there’s nothing to show for the weeks of smiling through Nexagen’s orientation sessions, swallowing their pills, nodding at their sanitized promises. She’s risked too much to walk away empty-handed. So she presses forward, one cautious step at a time, the tunnel sloping downward, the air growing heavier with each foot she descends.
The walls are uneven, scarred with old pickaxe marks, remnants of the mine’s past life. But there are newer signs too—cables snaking along the ground, their black insulation gleaming under her light, running deeper into the shaft. They’re not dusty, not abandoned. Someone’s been here recently, maintaining whatever this is. Her stomach twists, a cold knot forming as she traces the cables with her eyes. They lead to a junction ahead, where the tunnel splits into two narrower paths, each one swallowed by shadow. The thrum is louder now, splitting into a discordant rhythm, like multiple sources overlapping, out of sync. It’s coming from the left path, she’s sure of it, a pull she can’t explain guiding her there.
Her free hand brushes the recorder through her jacket, a nervous tic. “If you’re hearing this,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the pulse in the walls, “I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be. Under the lab complex. There’s… something down here. Not equipment, not data. It’s—” She stops, her throat tightening as a faint scrape echoes from the right tunnel. Her flashlight snaps toward it, the beam trembling in her grip. Nothing. Just stone and shadow, the cables disappearing into the dark. But she heard it—a sound like fingernails dragging on rock, slow and deliberate. Her pulse hammers in her ears, louder than the thrum for a moment, and she forces herself to breathe, to keep her voice steady. “It’s not empty. I don’t know what’s here, but I’m not alone.”
She edges toward the left path, her back pressed to the wall, the stone’s chill seeping through her jacket into her skin. The thrum is almost unbearable now, a vibration that rattles her teeth, and as she rounds the bend, her light catches something—a metal grate set into the floor, rusted but reinforced with newer bolts. Below it, a faint glow pulses in time with the sound, a sickly yellow-green that seems to writhe rather than flicker. She crouches, her knees protesting against the cold floor, and angles the flashlight through the grate. It’s a chamber, maybe ten feet down, the walls slick with some kind of residue, glistening under the faint illumination. And in the center, a structure—organic, almost, like a root system or a nest, but it’s moving, tendrils curling and uncurling with a slow, deliberate rhythm. The glow comes from within it, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Her stomach lurches, bile rising in her throat. She fumbles the recorder out, her fingers clumsy with adrenaline, and holds it closer to the grate, as if it could capture what she’s seeing. “It’s… alive,” she breathes, her voice cracking. “Whatever this is, it’s not tech. It’s not a machine. It’s growing down here, and Nexagen—they’ve built around it. They’re using it.” Her mind races, piecing together fragments of overheard conversations, the endless health checks, the supplements in the water. Not for wellness. Not for data. For this. To feed it, or harvest it, or—God, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to know.
A sudden noise—a sharp clatter—snaps her head up. It’s from behind, back toward the junction. Her light swings wildly, catching the glint of something moving, a shadow that shouldn’t be there. Her breath catches, her body freezing for a split second before instinct kicks in. She scrambles to her feet, the recorder shoved back into her pocket, and bolts back toward the tunnel’s entrance, her boots slipping on the slick floor. The thrum follows her, louder, angrier, as if it knows she’s seen too much. Her flashlight beam bounces off the walls, disorienting, and she nearly collides with the stone as the tunnel curves. Behind her, the sound comes again, closer—a scraping, dragging noise, heavy and purposeful.
She doesn’t look back. She can’t. Her hand finds the door she came through, still ajar, and she throws herself against it, slamming it shut with a force that jars her shoulder. The lock grinds as she turns the key, her hands shaking so badly she nearly drops it. For a moment, there’s silence on the other side, and she leans against the door, her forehead pressed to the cold metal, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The thrum is still there, muted now, but persistent, a reminder that whatever’s down there isn’t contained by a door or a lock. It’s bigger than that. Older.
She stumbles back into the lab’s basement corridor, the fluorescent lights harsh after the tunnel’s gloom. Her reflection catches in a glass panel as she passes, her face pale, her eyes wide, strands of dark hair plastered to her sweat-soaked forehead. She looks like she’s seen a ghost—or something worse. Her recorder is still in her pocket, still running, and she knows she has to listen to it, to make sure it caught what she saw, what she felt. But not here. Not now. She needs to get upstairs, back to the volunteer quarters, somewhere with people, with noise, with anything to drown out the echo of that thrum still lingering in her chest.
Jake’s hands won’t stop shaking. He’s sitting on the edge of his cot in the dorm block, the crisp white sheets rumpled under him, the room smelling faintly of antiseptic and the cheap pine air freshener Nexagen sprays everywhere. It’s late, past midnight, and the other volunteers in his unit are asleep, their breathing a soft, uneven chorus through the thin walls. He should be asleep too—hell, he’s exhausted, bone-deep tired after another day of pointless “wellness activities” and blood draws—but every time he closes his eyes, he sees it. His reflection in the bathroom mirror, caught in the corner of his vision as he brushed his teeth. He hadn’t blinked. He’s sure of it. But the face in the glass did, slow and deliberate, like it was testing him.
He rubs his palms against his thighs, the rough denim grounding him for a second, but it doesn’t help. His skin feels too tight, like it’s stretched over something that ain’t quite him anymore. The supplements they’re all on, the little green pills they take with breakfast and dinner, they’re supposed to boost energy, improve focus. And yeah, he’s felt it—stronger, sharper, like he could run a mile without breaking a sweat. But there’s a flip side. His dreams are wrong, fractured things, full of shadows that move when they shouldn’t, voices that ain’t human. And now this. His own damn face playing tricks.
He stands, pacing the small room, his work boots still on because he can’t stand the thought of being barefoot, vulnerable. The floor’s cold through the soles anyway, a chill that creeps up his legs. He stops at the narrow window, the blinds half-drawn, and peers out at New Eden’s main square. The streetlights cast a sterile glow over the pristine sidewalks, the manicured greenery, the identical housing units lined up like toys. It’s too perfect, too quiet. Like a set for a movie nobody’s watching. He catches his reflection again in the glass, faint against the night, and his gut clenches. He turns away before he can see if it moves on its own.
There’s a knock at his door, soft but insistent. He freezes, his hand hovering near the knob, his breath shallow. “Who’s there?” he calls, his voice rougher than he means it to be.
“It’s Maddie. From Unit 4. Can I—can we talk?” Her voice is low, urgent, and there’s a tremor in it that sets his nerves on edge. He’s seen her around, the quiet one with the sharp eyes, always scribbling in a notebook or muttering into that little recorder she carries. He doesn’t trust her—hell, he doesn’t trust anyone here—but there’s something in her tone that ain’t faked. Something scared.
He opens the door a crack, just enough to see her standing there, her jacket zipped to her chin, her hair a mess, her skin pale under the hallway lights. She’s got that recorder in her hand, clutched like a lifeline, and her eyes dart past him, like she’s checking if he’s alone. “What’s this about?” he asks, keeping his voice down. The last thing he needs is someone reporting him for breaking curfew rules.
“Not here,” she whispers, glancing down the empty corridor. “Outside. Please. I—I found something. You’re not gonna believe it, but I need someone to know.”
He hesitates, his fingers tightening on the doorframe. Every part of him wants to say no, to slam the door and pretend this place is just weird, not wrong. But then he catches his reflection in the hallway mirror across from his room, and for a split second, he swears the eyes ain’t his. They’re emptier, colder. He yanks his gaze away, his jaw tight, and nods at Maddie. “Gimme a sec to grab my coat.”
They slip out through a side exit, the night air biting against his face, carrying the faint smell of coal dust that never quite leaves this town, no matter how much Nexagen polishes it up. The square is deserted, the streetlights humming faintly, and Maddie leads him toward a bench near the edge of the green, half-hidden by a row of shrubs. She sits, her hands fidgeting with the recorder, and he drops down beside her, his elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. The grass looks fake up close, too even, too green for this time of year.
“I was in the labs tonight,” she starts, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes scanning the shadows. “Not supposed to be, obviously, but I got access. There’s a tunnel under the main complex, part of the old mine. And there’s… something down there. Not equipment, not storage. It’s alive, Jake. Moving. Growing. And it’s connected to whatever they’re doing to us.”
He stares at her, his throat dry. “You’re sayin’ they’ve got some kinda… thing? Under our feet? What the hell are you even talkin’ about?”
“I don’t know what it is,” she snaps, her voice sharp but still quiet. “But I saw it. I recorded it. The sound it makes, it’s not—normal. And the way they’ve built around it, the cables, the setup, it’s like they’re feeding it. Or taking something from it. And us—we’re part of it. The pills, the tests, the water. It’s not about health. It’s about whatever’s down there.”
His hands clench into fists, the tremor in them worse now. He wants to call her crazy, to laugh it off, but her words dig into him, hooking into the unease he’s carried since day one. The way his body feels wrong, the way his reflection ain’t right. “You got proof?” he asks, his voice low, almost a growl. “Or is this just you spinnin’ stories to mess with folks?”
She hesitates, then presses a button on the recorder. The sound that comes out ain’t just static or her voice—it’s that thrum, deep and uneven, layered with something else, a faint, keening undertone that makes his skin crawl. It’s like hearing a scream through water, muffled but raw. He flinches, his hand shooting out to stop the playback. “Turn that off. Now.”
She does, her fingers trembling as she pockets the device. “That’s what I heard down there. That’s what’s under us. And I think—I think it’s why some of us are… changing. I’ve seen it in the others. The way they space out, the way they stop talking. You’ve noticed it too, haven’t you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His mind flashes to Clara from Unit 2, the way she stared through him at breakfast yesterday, her fork hovering over her plate for too long, her eyes blank. And himself, the mirror, the dreams. He rubs his face, the stubble rough under his palm, and mutters, “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”
They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of it pressing down harder than the cold. Finally, he looks at her, his jaw tight. “So what now? You gonna tell someone? Get outta here?”
“I can’t,” she says, her voice breaking on the word. “Not yet. I need more. I need to know what it is, what they’re doing. But I can’t do it alone. I’m… I’m scared, okay? I don’t know who to trust, but you—you’re not like the others. You see it too. Help me. Please.”
He stares at her, the plea hanging between them, raw and heavy. Part of him wants to walk away, to bury this, to take the money and pretend nothing’s wrong until the contract’s up. But another part—the part that’s felt the wrongness in his bones since he got here—knows he can’t. Not after that sound. Not after his own damn face turned on him. “Fine,” he says at last, the word tasting like ash. “But if this goes south, if you’re wrong, I’m done. You hear me?”
She nods, relief flickering across her face, but it’s fleeting. The shadows around them seem deeper now, the streetlights dimmer, and as they stand to head back, Jake catches a glint in the distance—someone watching from the lab complex window, a silhouette against the glass. His gut twists, but when he blinks, it’s gone. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe.
They part ways at the dorm entrance, her footsteps echoing down the hall as she disappears into her unit. Jake lingers by his door, his hand on the knob, the cold metal biting into his skin. He doesn’t go inside right away. Instead, he glances at the mirror across the hall one last time, half-expecting to see that empty stare again. The reflection holds steady this time, just his own tired eyes looking back. But deep in his chest, under the ache and the fear, something shifts—a crack forming, small but real, in the wall he’s built to keep this place out. Whatever’s under the labs, whatever Maddie saw, it’s not just her problem now. It’s his. And as he finally steps into his room, the door clicking shut behind him, he knows there’s no closing that crack again.