Keep reading—the biggest twist is still ahead.

The house stood tall in the moonlight, its windows dark and forbidding. It looked exactly as I had left it, an imposing monument to the life I had been forced to live. We didn't drive up the driveway. We parked a mile away and walked through the woods, the trees and shadows our only cover.

Marcus led the way, his movements silent and predatory. We reached the back fence, and I pulled out the wire cutters I had brought with me.

"Stay close," Marcus whispered.

We moved through the garden, the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves a sensory memory of the days I had wasted here. We reached the side entrance, the one I had left open, and slipped inside.

The house was cold. The silence was absolute.

We navigated the halls, avoiding the main rooms, and reached the narrow staircase leading to the attic. I hadn't been in this attic since I was a child. It was filled with dust, old toys, and the debris of a life I barely recognized.

We reached the top, the air thick with dust.

"There," I whispered, pointing to the far corner.

The trunk was there, exactly where it had been twenty years ago. It was covered in a heavy, moth-eaten blanket. I reached for it, my heart hammering, and pulled the blanket back.

The trunk was still locked.

I looked at the lock—a heavy, brass mechanism that looked like it belonged on a pirate’s chest.

"We have to open it," I said, reaching for the tools.

Suddenly, a light flickered on.

My mother stood at the top of the stairs, her face pale, her hand holding a heavy, black pistol.

"I knew you'd come back, David," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "I knew you were too sentimental to let go of your childhood."

I stood between her and the trunk, my hand reaching for my weapon.

"It’s over, Mother," I said. "I know what you did. I know about the experiments, about Anna, about the Syndicate."

"And you think you can stop me?" she laughed, a sharp, broken sound. "You’re just a boy who’s playing with ghosts."

She raised the gun.

But she didn't shoot at me. She shot at the trunk.

Bang.

The lock shattered, but the impact caused the trunk to fall open.

There wasn't a data drive inside. There wasn't a key.

There was a collection of tapes—dozens of them, labeled with dates and names.

"You think this is just about money?" my mother said, her face twisted in a mask of triumph. "These tapes are the original recording of every test, every experiment, and every betrayal the Syndicate has performed in the last fifty years. And they’re the only copy in existence."

She smiled, a truly terrifying sight. "If you try to take them, you’re not just taking the Syndicate’s power. You’re taking the proof of everything the Whitmore family has ever done."

"Then I’m taking it," I said, lunging for the trunk.

But as I reached for the tapes, the floor beneath us groaned.

The house was rigged.

The entire attic started to shift, the ceiling beams buckling under a sudden, massive weight.

"She rigged the house!" Marcus shouted, scrambling for the stairs.

My mother didn't run. She stood there, watching the house come down, her face filled with a strange, dark peace.

I grabbed a handful of tapes—as many as I could reach—and sprinted for the stairs, the roof of the attic collapsing behind me.

I didn't look back at my mother. I didn't look back at the house.

I ran.