Darn Stupid Brother You Are

(Angel's POV)

The day dragged on like a slow-motion nightmare. Every time I saw him and every glance we exchanged across the room, I was pulled back to last night. The kiss. His lips on mine and the way my heart raced, the way my body betrayed me. How could it have happened?

I needed to talk to him. But not now.

I reminded myself to focus because there was more at stake than our tangled, forbidden feelings. Hendrix's life and our lives were in danger and I couldn't afford to lose sight of that. Not when I was finally beginning to piece together the twisted truth behind this place.

Later that night after everyone else in the dorm was asleep, I slipped out and my heart pounded in my chest. The dim flickering lights of the wellness center's hallways cast eerie shadows that made everything feel more sinister and more claustrophobic. My destination was the West Wing.

The place had always creeped me out and the air felt thick with something I couldn't name, but I had no choice. If I wanted to find the answers, this was where they would be.

I pushed the heavy door open and the old hinges groaned like they were warning me to turn back. But I didn't because I couldn't. The smell hit me first. Stale air, antiseptic, and something darker like fear that lingered in the corners. I walked deeper into the hall and passed rooms that all seemed the same until I found one that felt different.

There in the corner of a dusty abandoned room, I saw it. A small leather-bound journal. The kind that had been left behind on purpose, hidden but waiting to be found. The leather was cracked and worn from too many hands and too many secrets. I could barely make out the faded name on the cover: "Dr. Valen."

My hands trembled as I picked it up and flipped through the yellowed pages. The handwriting was sharp and precise like the person writing it was in complete control. But the words, the words were anything but.

...

<<

Case #247: ARDS Simulation

Operation: Implanted neurochip to simulate reproductive dysfunction. Subjects exhibit decreased hormonal activity, followed by organ degradation.

Purpose: To harvest viable organs post-treatment. Expected failure rates: 40%. High yield from younger patients.

Case #251: Pain Threshold Experimentation

Operation: Subject restrained and injected with experimental serum L3-9X to monitor physical resilience. Results: Tissue damage accelerated beyond control. Death recorded at 6 hours post-injection. Purpose: Viability of pain tolerance for high-pressure transplant scenarios.

Case #259: Psychological Manipulation through Hallucinogenic Therapy

Operation: Subject administered hallucinogenic drug series (Compound HX-74) inducing heightened paranoia and fear.

Purpose: Inducing mental breakdown in preparation for surgeries without anesthesia.

...

I slammed the book shut and my breath hitched in my throat. My mind spun as I tried to process what I'd just read.

Hendrix's illness wasn't real. ARDS was stimulated. It was *fake.* A twisted lie created to weaken patients like him so they could be harvested. They were making him sicker, breaking his body down. And for what? *His organs.*

The journal said it clearly: "Viable organs post-treatment." It was all about their black market surgeries, taking people who trusted them, people like Hendrix, and preparing them for illegal procedures. Like livestock.

I flipped through the rest of the journal and skimmed pages, searching for more answers, more truths hidden in the dark.

...

Case #278: Organ Harvesting Preparation

Operation: Subjects prepped for high-yield kidney and liver extraction. Failure rate: 60%. Higher success in younger subjects.

Purpose: Black market organ trade to international clientele.

I stopped reading. I couldn't. The horror of it all sank deep into my bones.

The center wasn't just a place for treatment-it was a slaughterhouse. They played God with these people's lives. They lured in patients with fake illnesses like Hendrix's, made them believe they were being treated, and then they took what they needed and discarded the rest.

Oh God...

I clutched the journal to my chest, feeling sick, feeling like the ground was falling out from under me. I needed to get out of there. I needed to tell Hendrix. He had to know the truth, even if it destroyed him.

I slipped the journal into my jacket and hugged it close as I hurried through the dim halls. My footsteps echoed too loudly in my ears. Every shadow seemed to be moving. I felt like the walls were watching me, like the center itself knew I'd uncovered its secrets.

I rounded a corner and almost ran smack into the dorm mother.

Miss Stefan.

She stood there and her beady eyes narrowed as she looked at me. My heart jumped into my throat. I ducked my head and mumbled some excuse about going to the bathroom but she lingered, her gaze heavy and suspicious. Next to her, I saw Thomas. They were talking in hushed tones but I couldn't hear a word. My mind was too scrambled and too focused on the horror I carried in my hands.

Miss Stefan kept staring at me like she knew, like she could sense the truth burning under my skin. But she didn't say anything. She just nodded and a small, tight smile pulled at her lips as I passed.

I didn't know what to make of it but I didn't stop to think. I couldn't afford to.

I reached the dorms and practically burst through the door as I rushed to find Hendrix. My heart pounded and my mind raced with a thousand thoughts, none of them good. My breath came out in harsh gasps by the time I reached his room. I hesitated for a moment and clutched the journal to my chest. My hands were shaking again.

How could I tell him? How could I say, "You're not really sick but they're going to kill you anyway"?

I shook my head and pushed the thought away. I would find the words. I had to.

Hendrix needed to know the truth and then we needed to get out of there.