The next morning, the fog rolled in thick.
Campus looked like it had been swallowed whole. Buildings faded into pale silhouettes. Streetlamps glowed weakly through the mist, like dying stars.
Ronan and Calla met outside the east wing just after dawn. Calla had two coffees, a satchel bag, and the look of someone who hadn't slept but refused to admit it.
She handed him a cup. "How's your… roommate?"
Ronan smirked. "Growly. Hungry. You know. The usual."
"Tell her I want bacon," the wolf grunted.
"He wants bacon."
Calla snorted. "Don't we all."
They kept their heads down as they crossed campus. Administration had been tense all morning — security guards posted near the library, whispers of a break-in. Someone had covered the staff directory screen in the main hall with a cloth.
"Too clean," Calla muttered. "They're hiding something."
Ronan agreed. But his head was pounding. Ever since the leech attack, his senses had been off. Everything smelled too sharp. Lights were too bright. And sometimes, when he looked at people, he saw a flicker of… something beneath the skin.
Like everyone was wearing a mask.
The wolf didn't comment. But he could feel it bristling. Watching. Waiting.
They slipped into the old student archive room — dusty, silent, forgotten. No cameras here. Just boxes and rusted file drawers.
Calla slid her bag down and went straight for the back shelf.
Ronan frowned. "What are we looking for again?"
"An old incident," she said. "From 1996. The one tied to Dr. Lorne."
She pulled a heavy cardboard box down. Inside were scanned files — old student records, printed emails, typed letters. Most were moldy.
But one envelope had a fresh seal on it.
Too fresh.
Calla sliced it open with a key.
Inside was a stack of polaroids, a folded piece of yellowed paper, and a black-and-white print of a student ID.
Ronan squinted. "That's… Lorne?"
"No," Calla said, eyes narrowing. "Look at the student name."
Ronan read it out loud.
"Elias Lorne."
They both froze.
"He was a student here," Calla whispered. "He didn't start as faculty. He was one of the first."
Ronan flipped the photo over. On the back, scrawled in faded ink:
"Subject 0. Survived."
And below that — a line of symbols.
The same diagram they'd seen before.
The one carved into the basement walls.
Calla grabbed a notebook from her bag and started sketching. "This is it. This proves he was part of the original experiment. Maybe even the only one who made it out."
Ronan stared at the photo. Lorne looked twenty, maybe. Eyes sunken, jaw clenched. A faint scar over his eyebrow. And the same empty look he still wore now, decades later.
"You think he did this to himself?" Ronan asked.
Calla nodded. "Or someone else did. And he's been trying to finish it ever since."
They both sat back for a second, letting it sink in.
For the first time in days, they felt close. Not to answers, maybe. But to something real. Something solid.
A lead.
And it felt… good.
Calla smiled — rare, genuine. "This could blow the lid off everything."
Ronan smiled back. "Still want to run?"
She rolled her eyes. "Only if you carry me."
"Do it, pup," the wolf grunted. "She's cute when she threatens you."
Outside, the fog was lifting.
But the feeling in the air hadn't changed.
The deeper they went, the more it felt like something was watching them now — not out of curiosity.
But hunger.
Still, for the first time, they had hope.
Not because they were safe.
But because they finally knew where to look.