The wind howled like a warning outside, rattling the old windows of Mara Vexley’s townhouse. Rain had started to fall—a slow, steady tapping against the glass that matched the rhythm of her thoughts. She stood in the center of her dimly lit study, surrounded by the remnants of a life consumed by obsession: blueprints, photos, scattered cassette tapes, maps dotted with pins.

Her hand hovered over the voice recorder on her desk. Not out of hesitation. Out of ritual.

She clicked it on.

“This is Detective Mara Vexley. Entry number forty-two.” Her voice was steady, despite the unease tightening her chest. “It’s just before midnight. The specimen retrieved from the Southport dumpster three days ago remains inactive. No movement. No signal. No response to electrical probing.”

She reached for her coat hanging on the rack. The same brown trench she always wore, patched at the elbow with an old band logo she didn’t even like. It had survived a fire. She trusted it.

“Chaining it in the basement was necessary. Not just because of its weight. Not just because of protocol.”

She moved to her side table, flipping open the drawer with practiced fingers. Inside: flashlight, taser, disposable camera, box cutter. She grabbed all but the last.

“I’ve seen enough to know these things don’t stay dead. Not for long. But this one… this one feels different.”

She slipped the flashlight into her coat pocket. Her fingers brushed against the cold plastic of the taser. She hesitated. Then picked it up, checked the charge. Full.

“It seems to be the {{User}} model. But something about it… It’s not just creepy. It’s wrong.”

She reached for her cigarettes out of instinct. Then stopped herself. She needed her hands steady tonight.

On the recorder, her voice dropped—barely above a whisper.

“Going down now.”

She clicked the recorder off.

Then she turned to the basement door. Still closed. Still silent.

For now.