Chapter 34

Although Oliver remembered nothing from his past, he knew—instinctively, deeply—that he was good at holding his breath underwater. It was muscle memory, like riding a bike or tying a knot. Before the center fell under the General's brutal supervision, back when his only friend was Matthew, Oliver had kept his distance from others. He had regarded people with quiet disdain and a wary gaze, shunning every attempt at conversation.

Back then, he often locked himself in the bathroom, seeking solitude in strange rituals. One of them was filling the bathtub to the brim with cold water and diving under, letting it envelop him completely. He'd lie there, submerged, intoxicated by false memories—fragments that weren't his, or maybe once were. Either way, the silence calmed him.

Now, late at night, with the cold mud of a black pond beneath his hands and the surface far above, he felt no fear. Clutching the waterproof flashlight he'd stolen last year during punishment duty, he moved through the murky water like a shadow, following only the instinct that something was down here—something connected to Sara's recurring dreams and the phantoms that haunted her.

He had to find it.

And then—there it was.

The beam of light caught on a shape buried in silt. A box.

His pulse quickened. He reached out.

The moment his fingers brushed the metal, something snapped inside him.

A blinding flash exploded behind his eyes.

A memory. Sharp. Raw. Violent.

He gasped underwater, and a muffled, guttural scream escaped his throat. Panic surged through him, hot and uncontrollable. He jerked back, suddenly unsure of where he was, or when he was. A moment later, his body took over, kicking violently toward the surface.

Sara crouched at the edge of the pond, biting her nails furiously. The minutes stretched endlessly. Oliver hadn't surfaced, and the darkness around them pressed in closer, thicker, suffocating.

Something was wrong.

She felt it in her bones.

"Another minute and you'll fall in after him," Laura muttered beside her, rolling her eyes. "Come on, he's fine. In a second, you'll see his head. There aren't even fish in there to eat him."

Sara didn't answer. Her stomach churned with dread. She should've stopped him. Why had she let him do something so reckless?

Then—a splash.

Sara's eyes flew open.

Oliver emerged near the shore, soaked and pale. He swam toward them, dragging himself onto the muddy bank. His chest heaved with ragged breaths. In his hand, he clutched something.

A box.

But Sara didn't even register it at first. She rushed to his side and took his face in her trembling hands. His skin was cold and clammy, and his wide, haunted eyes told her everything.

Something had happened down there.

"Oliver, I almost died of fear," she whispered, her voice shaking. She slapped his chest—not out of anger, but sheer panic. "What were you thinking?"

"I'm fine," he croaked, forcing a crooked smile. "Remember, the Grim Reaper's so afraid of me, he doesn't dare show his face."

She wasn't smiling.

"That was the last time you do something this dangerous…"

Laura, hovering behind them, raised an eyebrow.

"Are you two auditioning for a soap opera?" she muttered, crossing her arms. Her eyes drifted to the object in Oliver's hand. A box. Metal, rusted, and very old.

"I managed to grab it," Oliver said, his voice steadier now. "I think this is the thing that keeps haunting you."

Sara turned her gaze downward. Her eyes widened.

A rusted metal box, dripping with pond water, lay between them.

"You actually found it?"

"Impressive, huh?" He tilted his head, waiting for praise, his expression boyishly hopeful.

Sara raised an eyebrow and leaned in. "I'll admit—you've made an electrifying impression," she said dryly. "You're… appealing."

Laura coughed, choking on her own saliva. "Excuse me? Appealing? Who are you lately?"

A slow grin spread across Oliver's face.

"Totally worth the near-death experience."

Sara reached for the box, her fingers trembling. Her throat tightened as she touched the rusted lid. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. What's inside?

Oliver glanced around, then flicked his flashlight toward the woods. All clear.

Sara took a breath, steeled herself, and slowly lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled among the shadows, was… a wine bottle.

The three of them stared at it in silence.

Laura blinked.

"All that drama over a damn grandpa bottle?" she scoffed. "Spirits must be having a laugh at your expense, Sara."

"Wait," Oliver said. "There's something inside."

He popped the cork and tilted the bottle. A small, tightly rolled scroll slid into his hand.

Sara and Laura leaned in, their nerves returning.

"I don't know about you, but I'm scared to look," Sara whispered.

Oliver carefully unrolled the scroll.

A map.

A full layout of the building.

And one marked point.

Laura snatched the paper from his hands, eyes darting over the lines.

"Tell me you're thinking what I'm thinking."

"I am," Sara murmured.

"That 'LP'... it's the location," Laura said. "Where the uranium's hidden."

While the girls pored over the map, Oliver stood silently. They didn't notice the way his expression darkened. His back was turned, his breathing shallow.

He closed his eyes.

The flash returned.

A child's perspective. Water above him. Hands—someone's hands—shoving his head down. He kicked and thrashed, lungs burning. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream.

Terror.

He had been just a child.

And someone had tried to drown him.

*

Erik lingered near the psychologist's office for a while, uncertain and uneasy. The man didn't respond to his repeated calls, and the silence gnawed at him. Finally, unable to bear the waiting, Erik slipped down to the underground part of the building, thinking maybe the psychologist had stepped out.

But then, shock crashed over him like a wave.

There, on the cold floor, lay the man—unconscious, or worse—bathed in a pool of dark, glistening blood.

Erik ran forward, dropping to his knees. He pressed trembling fingers against the man's neck, searching desperately for a pulse. Nothing.

The psychologist was dead.

Murdered—cruelly, mercilessly—in his own office.

With blood smeared on his hands, Erik stumbled backward. Tears burned at the corners of his eyes. The psychologist had been the only man he trusted. The only one who could have helped him and his brother escape this nightmare.

Suddenly, a sharp banging echoed from behind the glass. A mentally unstable man hammered at the window with wild, frantic energy—as if trying desperately to say something, to warn them all.

Erik scrambled to his feet and bolted out of the office. As he ran down the corridor, voices drifted to him—familiar voices.

He rounded the corner and, overcome by panic, lunged at the group of teenagers gathered there.

Laura screamed as she noticed the blood on his hands, but Erik quickly covered her mouth to keep her quiet.

"What happened?" someone asked, eyes wide with fear.

"The psychologist… he's dead," Erik gasped. "I found him… in his office."

The room froze.

Even Laura, now struggling quietly against his hand, stared with wide eyes at the bloodied boy.

Sara watched them all with growing concern as they whispered and speculated. Who could have done this? The General was the first name on everyone's lips—but he hadn't been near the building for days. It didn't make sense.

Suddenly, Sara's thoughts snapped sharply in one direction. One name stood out—Alan.

Could Alan have killed the psychologist?

Her mind raced back to recent warnings. Alan had cautioned her about the psychologist, accusing the man of deceit and threatening harm. At the time, Sara hadn't believed him. Could Alan have been trying to protect her? Could he have actually killed to keep her safe?

Fear gripped her chest.

And then another terrifying thought took root.

The phantom that haunted her—the figure she believed to be her grandmother—who had urged her to kill Alan… could that ghost be connected to the psychologist? Was it his mother? Had she been trying to prevent another murder, to protect someone from a terrible fate?

Sara's breath hitched.

"No… not that," she whispered, covering her mouth with trembling hands.

"Sara?" Oliver's voice pulled her back. "What's going on?"

She shook her head, guilt weighing heavy. "I could've stopped this. If only I had listened to the phantom… maybe we could've saved him. The one person who could've gotten us out."

Oliver frowned, stepping closer, his hands resting on her shoulders as he searched her face. "What do you mean?"

"I think… somehow, I'm responsible for the psychologist's death," she said, eyes dark with fear. "And I'm scared. Scared that all of you are in danger. Everyone… except me."

Oliver's gaze didn't waver. His mind churned over her words, until a twisted smile pulled at his lips.

"Alan killed him," Oliver said suddenly, voice low but sharp. He glanced at the others, then back to Sara, who now bit her lip, anger flashing in her eyes.

"He killed him, didn't he?" Oliver pressed, voice rising.

"I won't let him kill again," Oliver shouted, fists clenched, fury spilling over. "We won't live in fear of one bastard whose hands are soaked in blood!"

Sara's eyes filled with worry. But it wasn't fear that he might become a murderer that scared her most—it was the terrifying possibility that Oliver could kill Alan.

"Stop it, Oliver," she said, voice trembling. "You're angry, and your head isn't clear. If you keep going like this, you'll only destroy yourself—and I can't bear that."

"Can't bear what?" Oliver asked, his voice cold.

"That someone I loved would become a murderer," Sara whispered, her words hanging in the air.

No one expected to hear those words from her.

Once again, Sara surprised them all.