Chapter 1

The alarm sirens ripped through the midnight silence.

I clutched the hard drive in my hand and ran down the hallway like I had lost my mind.

Behind me, the old patients who used to shuffle along at a slow, careful pace were now chasing me like cheetahs.

They moved on all fours without making a single sound. Their eyes glowed with an unnatural green light.

I shoved the fire door open and ran straight into the pouring rain. Mud splashed up and soaked my clothes.

I didn't dare look back. I had just seen Madison Dixon, the woman who had always been the kindest to me. Her skin had peeled away in loose folds, like a snake shedding.

From her dry mouth, she spat out a fresh tooth, slick with blood.

The hard drive in my hand carried the final secret of Brightvale Senior Institute, a place that was supposed to be a high-end nursing home.

The truth inside it was enough to drive the whole world insane. I had to stay alive. I had to show it to everyone.

But before I could do that, there was one thing I needed to understand.

I had to know why a green vine pattern was starting to spread across the back of my hand. It was the exact same pattern the old patients had.

*****

The cold tip of my pen hovered over the signature line on the last page of the contract. I sat there for a long time without signing.

Sweat from my fingers had already soaked into the smooth paper and left a smudged mark.

I could feel the man across from me staring at my neck. His gaze was sharp, and it made me shiver.

My stomach ached. I had not eaten all day, and the nerves were making it worse.

"Mr. Griffith, do you have any other questions?" the interviewer asked. His voice was flat, almost mechanical.

His name was Kevin Alvarado. He was the head of human resources at Brightvale Senior Institute.

He pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. The lenses caught the pale ceiling light and flashed, hiding his eyes from me.

Still, I did not need to see them. I could feel how he was looking at me. He was sizing me up, judging me, the way someone in a slaughterhouse would look at an animal and guess its weight.

I lowered my eyes to the contract again and read the lines that made my skin crawl.

"You are not allowed to contact the outside world for any reason.

"You must obey all rules and arrangements made by the institute.

"Employees must keep all medical miracles witnessed in the institute confidential for life."

This was not a job contract. It felt like I was handing over my soul.

But the third hospital notice for my sister was in my pocket. The edges were worn soft from being folded and unfolded so many times.

Every word on that page pushed me toward the same answer—sell your soul if you have to.

The monthly pay was 15 thousand dollars after tax.

That number burned into my mind like a hot iron. With that money, I could finally pay for my sister's surgery.

My throat was dry, and when I spoke, my voice came out rough. "Mr. Alvarado, you said our job is mostly to observe and record everything. What does that mean exactly?"

"It means exactly what it says." He leaned forward slightly and folded his hands on the table. "Our guests are very important people.

"Their health is our top priority. You will record their physical data, their moods, what they eat, and any other details you believe matter. We provide standard forms. You just need to fill them out."

Something about the way he spoke bothered me. He called them "guests" instead of elderly people or patients.

And "any other details you believe matter" was so vague that it made my chest tighten.

I gripped the pen harder. My knuckles turned white. My sister was lying in the ICU. Every second there cost money I did not have. I did not have a choice.

"I understand," I said. The words felt thick, like I was forcing them up from my chest.

The pen finally touched the paper. I wrote my name, Robert Griffith, one careful stroke at a time. It felt like I was carving it into a gravestone.

Kevin's lips twitched. It was not a real smile, just a slight movement of muscle.

He took the contract back, then pulled another sheet from a folder and slid it across the table.

"This is your work badge and the first file you need to study," he said.

I picked up the paper. It was a summary of a medical report.

Name: Gilbert Baxter

Age: 103

I skimmed through the medical terms until my eyes stopped at the bottom of the page. A note was printed there in bold.

[Cell activity level: S+]

[Comparison with employees aged 20 to 30 (sample size: 32): activity level is 15.7 percent higher.]

My heart started racing.

I could not believe a man over a hundred years old had higher cell activity than someone like me, a healthy 25-year-old.