The heavy linen towels lay scattered across the polished oak floor like discarded bandages.

At 1:00 AM, the Moretti estate was as dark and quiet as a tomb.

I sat on the edge of the bed in my small guest room, wearing black trousers, a dark long-sleeved shirt, and soft-soled rubber shoes. On the desk lay my notebook, where I had spent the last two hours sketching out the layout of the mansion based on what I had seen during my walk through the grounds and service wings.

The mansion had three levels above ground, but the eastern wing—where the boys’ bedrooms were located—sat directly above an older foundation built in the 1920s when the original estate was constructed.

I slipped out of my room, keeping my back to the wall to avoid the motion-tracking cameras mounted near the ceilings. Every mansion of this size had blind spots; security installers focused on exterior doors, windows, and main thoroughfares, but service corridors used by housekeepers and maintenance staff were often overlooked to save costs or preserve aesthetic paneling.

I used the service staircase behind the kitchen, descending past the main level into the basement storage rooms where fine wines, extra linens, and seasonal furniture were kept.

The air grew cooler, heavy with the smell of damp stone and concrete.

At the end of a long hallway lined with wooden wine racks sat a heavy, reinforced steel door painted dark gray. A digital keypad glowed softly in the darkness, its tiny red LED light pulsing like a heartbeat.

Beside the keypad was a small brass plaque: MECHANICAL CONTROL ROOM – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

I pulled my phone out and activated the camera, holding it up to the keypad. Using a small UV light attachment I’d brought in my kit, I shone the purple beam across the rubber buttons.

Keypads in high-security facilities tell stories. The oil from human fingers lingers on buttons that are pressed repeatedly.

The numbers 2, 4, 8, and 9 glowed brightly under the UV light, coated in a faint layer of skin oil. The button for # was also smudged.

A four-digit code using those numbers gave twenty-four possible combinations. But I didn't have time to try twenty-four combinations; three wrong entries on a system like this would trigger a silent alarm to the main security desk.

I stopped, thinking about Dr. Blake. An arrogant man, obsessed with his own accomplishments and history.

What was the date Apex Biopharma went bankrupt?

I pulled up a saved news article on my phone. The bankruptcy filing had been finalized on August 24th—08/24.

I held my breath, stretched out my gloved hand, and entered: 8 - 4 - 2 - 9 - #.

The keypad beeped twice. The red LED turned a solid, glorious green.

With a heavy, pneumatic hiss, the steel door unlocked and swung inward an inch.

I slipped inside, pulling the door closed behind me until it caught the latch, leaving it open just a hair so I wouldn't lock myself in.

The room beyond was huge, cavernous, and echoed with the deep, throbbing hum of massive air compressors. Steel pipes painted silver, red, and blue ran across the ceiling like the exposed intestines of some giant mechanical beast.

I moved quietly through the maze of machinery, my flash beam cut to a thin, narrow pinpoint.

Near the back of the room, tucked behind a massive water purification unit, I found what I was looking for: a custom, newly installed HVAC manifold system, gleaming with polished stainless steel.

Unlike the rest of the basement’s utilitarian equipment, this unit looked like a laboratory instrument. It had glass pressure gauges, digital flow meters, and two heavy steel tanks mounted to its frame, fed by thin copper lines that ran up directly into the concrete floor above—heading straight for the eastern wing.

I leaned closer, shining my light on the label attached to the primary steel tank.

It didn't say Oxygen or Nitrogen.

It bore a hazardous chemical diamond symbol and a chemical name etched into the steel:

DIMETHYL-PHOSPHO-NEUROTOXIN TYPE 4 [DPN-4] CAUTION: CHRONIC LOW-DOSE EXPOSURE CAUSES PROGRESSIVE MOTOR ATONIA, COGNITIVE DYSFUNCTION, AND CARDIAC ARREST.

My blood ran cold.

It wasn't an environmental accident. It wasn't a mistake.

It was a systematic, chemical assassination. DPN-4 was a synthetic organophosphate derivative—virtually undetectable in standard blood panels unless the lab specifically looked for its rare metabolic byproducts. It mimicked the symptoms of degenerative neurological diseases like ALS or mitochondrial dysfunction.

It was the exact same thing that had killed Eleanor Moretti three years ago.

I pulled my phone out, framing the chemical label, the manifold serial numbers, and the custom installation date in the camera lens, taking dozens of high-resolution photos.

Suddenly, a voice echoed through the metal chamber behind me.

“I told you she was going to be a problem, Harrison.”

I froze, turning slowly.

Standing by the heavy steel entrance door was Nurse Karen, holding a heavy black stun gun, its prongs blue with crackling electricity.