Night crawled back in, after the rain had subsided, but the silence of the cemetery still stung. The scent of wet earth and frozen grief lingered. Joe didn't go home anywhere.
His steps were unsteady, leading him to an old inn on the roadside.
The rented room smelled damp and of old paint, but at least there were no sirens or screams.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his right hand wrapped in bandages.
"Clara…" his voice broke softly.
There was no answer, only the sound of rain on the roof that sounded like pebbles thrown onto a coffin.
Every time Joe tried to close his eyes to sleep, Clara's voice hit him again.
"Joe, take June…"
It sounded so real that he flinched, gasping for breath.
His hand reached out, wanting to touch something that wasn't there—the empty air where their faces should have been.
He stared at the ceiling, his fingers clenched until his knuckles turned white.
Morning came imperceptibly. Light entered through the small window, but it brought no warmth.
A new day, he thought. But what for, if the contents are still the same?
The next few days were a blur, consisting only of the smell of antiseptic and the silence of the rented room. Finally, his feet led him back to the ruins of his house.
He didn't know why. Perhaps because there was nowhere else to go.
Or because a part of him still hoped to find something—anything—that hadn't been destroyed.
There were no officers left.
The police tape stretched across the area, fluttering in the wind.
Joe lifted it with a trembling hand, stepping into the ruins.
The air still smelled burnt.
Black charcoal covered the floor; every step he took made a small sound like breaking glass.
The house now looked only like a frame of burnt wood and bent iron.
But amidst the debris, he could still recognize the shape of the living room, where June used to draw.
He knelt, picking up a family photo that was half-burned.
Clara's face part was gone, but June's eyes were still intact—staring straight into the camera.
That gaze struck his chest.
Are you still here, June? Clara?
His inner voice was hoarse, barely able to come out.
He stared at the photo for a long time, dust sticking to his fingers.
In the kitchen, he found a fallen wall clock.
The hands had stopped at 11:47 PM—the time of the incident.
He picked up the clock, then placed it on the charred table.
Why wasn't it me instead?
The question still echoed in his head, like the buzzing from the utility pole that night.
Joe walked to the back room—the former study which was now just charred walls and fragments of cable.
Among the piles of bent metal and ash, something sparkled faintly. A USB flash drive. Part of the surface was scorched, but the core was still intact.
Joe lifted it slowly. On the blackened plastic side, there were small letters that were still clearly readable: N.O.I.R.
Joe stared at the object for a long time, his heart racing fast for no apparent reason. Just a strange intuition—a mixture of fear and curiosity.
Why did this thing survive? And why does it seem… important?
The wind passed through the gaps in the ruins, causing ash to swirl in the air.
Joe put the flash drive into his jacket pocket.
He didn't know why, but a part of him just knew, as if something was odd about all of this.
On his way back, Joe nearly passed an electronics store on the roadside.
The lights inside were dimly lit, and somehow, his steps stopped.
Behind the glass, a laptop caught his attention—simple, but as if waiting for someone.
He didn't know why he should buy it, he just felt he had to find something out that night.
Maybe because of the flash drive in his pocket.
Night came again with the rain.
Joe sat in the room, the neon light flickering on the ceiling.
The flash drive lay on the table, as if waiting to be touched.
He hesitated for a moment. Then finally plugged it into the laptop.
The screen flickered, emitting a low buzzing sound.
Most of the files were corrupted; the system tried to read them but failed.
Only one file appeared on the screen—a name that made his blood freeze:
SUB-07_BONDURANT.J.
Joe stared at the screen for a long time. That name—His own name—felt like a taunt from an entity that knew more than he did. What does this mean? Why am I part of something I don't even know about?
The chair creaked as Joe leaned back. Head down, his breathing heavy. Clara couldn't have known about this... could she?
A small voice inside him whispered: Or... she already knew. And that's why all this happened?
He opened the file slowly. Line by line appeared on the laptop screen—dates, notes, data logs, and blurry images. Among the rows of gray text, the name Clara Bondurant appeared repeatedly.
"Hospital. Treatment room. Patient code."
One folder was named E-Ward/Restricted.
"E-Ward…"
Joe repeated softly. Something throbbed in the back of his head—like an electric current running through his skin. Not a memory, but a sensation. His body knew something his mind didn't. The word stuck in his retina, like something he was supposed to remember but was intentionally erased.
He scrolled again, and found document snippets:
"Project Program N.O.I.R. – Subject 07 shows high resistance to neural stimulation."
"Side effects: partial memory loss, emotional behavior changes."
"Related Subject: Clara.B."
His heart pounded. His palms were cold.
That word—N.O.I.R.—felt like a distant echo shaking something inside Joe's head. But every time he tried to remember, all that came up was the hum of machines and a blinding white light.
Clara, an experimental subject—what does that mean?
His chest pinched from the inside. The monitor screen became the only light, demanding answers that never came.
Suddenly, the phone rang, sharp and sudden, breaking the silence.
An unknown number.
Joe glanced at his phone screen, hesitating only for a second before he answered, his jaw hardening.
"Who is this?" Joe's voice was hoarse, almost a whisper.
"Listen carefully. The fire… it wasn't an accident."
The world around him seemed to stop.
"What do you mean?" he asked quietly.
"Get out of that city… before they make sure you're really dead."
Click. The connection was cut.
Joe stared at his phone—there was only 'no signal' on the screen. He sat for a long time, putting together the scattered pieces of information. Every drop of water outside the window now felt like the tick of a clock accelerating his escape time.
They? Who? And why did all this feel planned? The laptop screen dimmed, showing a reflection of his own face—pale, unfamiliar, like someone he knew but couldn't trust. The rain knocked on the glass like the beat of a clock. Outside, the world slowly fell silent—only the turmoil within him didn't subside.
Time passed in the silence of the inn. Every answer only opened up new questions.
One thing was clear, however—Clara was not an accidental victim. Something, or someone, had guided him, watching his every move.
Joe picked up a notepad, started writing with a steady hand, making sure nothing was missed. He repeated the notes from another file; every number and every code like a puzzle piece to be assembled:
St. Luthier Hospital – City of Ashford
2nd Floor, Room 212
Report Date: 05/18/2016, 09:17 AM – 10:05 AM
Patient code: CB-0726.
"Ashford…? A small town that wasn't even on public maps after the big fire five years ago."
Joe closed the notepad for a moment. Trying to get up, he instinctively grabbed the table, making sure he was still here. He looked at the laptop screen again, then whispered softly:
"Clara… what exactly were you hiding?"
There was no answer.
He closed the laptop slowly. His head rested on his hands, lying on the bed, holding back the rumble in his mind. Silence swallowed the room. Outside, the remaining rain still dripped slowly onto the roof.
Night deepened. Joe tried to calm himself, closing his eyes to sleep—but the calm was just a trick.
In his head, Clara's voice sounded—slow, like a whisper from the fire.
"Joe…"
He looked up at the glass, only seeing himself. But his chest remained tight. That nightmare again—Clara's voice calling him from behind the flames.
And amidst the remaining sound of the rain, Joe knew—tomorrow, he would start burning back the world that hid the truth.