Chapter 2: The Box, the Letter, and the Man in the Photograph
Part 1
The funeral passed like fog—thick, suffocating, and too quiet.
Ethan Cole didn't cry.
Not because he didn't want to. Because he couldn't. The part of him that should've screamed, collapsed, or begged for one more day with his father had gone completely still. Not numb—something colder. Something that simply refused to accept any of this as real.
He stood in the back of the chapel, arms folded, watching from a distance as the minister read from Psalm 23. People filed in, most of them faces Ethan vaguely recognized from somewhere—old neighbors, a few men from the school where his father taught, two nurses from the clinic across the street.
They said the usual things.
"I'm so sorry for your loss."
"He was a kind man."
"He taught my daughter algebra—changed her life."
But every word felt like static in Ethan's ears. They didn't know the man in that casket. Not the way he'd come to see him over the last few days.
Not as someone who'd hidden something huge—something dangerous.
He didn't linger afterward. As soon as the burial ended, Ethan excused himself from the small wake that followed, got in his car, and drove. He didn't remember the route or how he got back to the apartment. He only remembered gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned bone-white.
When he finally stepped inside, the place felt like a crime scene that had been politely cleaned up.
And that damned box was still sitting on the table.
Wooden. Locked. Silent.
---
He'd spent the past three days searching every inch of the apartment. Most of what he found were things that made his chest ache—old birthday cards with his childish handwriting, faded photos from a beach trip when his mom was still alive, the last crossword puzzle his dad had half-finished.
But then came the real find.
It was past midnight. Ethan couldn't sleep. He had sat up, thinking about the lockbox, thinking about the odd smell of metal and vinegar in the air when he found his father. He grabbed a flashlight and started knocking on the walls, not expecting anything.
Then came the echo.
Behind the study's bookcase—an old one crammed with outdated encyclopedias and finance books—he found a hollow patch. He moved the shelf, and behind it was a narrow metal panel. It wasn't screwed in, just clipped on. Behind that? A shallow compartment.
Inside:
A black-and-white photograph
A sealed envelope
And a glass vial in a velvet-lined case
---
The photograph was the first thing he studied.
Three men stood in front of a nondescript brick building. One of them was clearly Thomas Cole—his father, much younger, maybe in his early thirties. He wore a long trench coat, clean-shaven, a cigarette held loosely in one hand.
Beside him stood two others. One looked military—cropped blond hair, broad shoulders, a stare that could cut steel. The third was older, bald, in a charcoal-gray suit and dark sunglasses. He had an odd presence, even in the photo—like he didn't belong.
On the back of the photo:
May 13, 1977
Dr. Halrick
Ethan's brows furrowed.
Halrick? The name meant nothing to him.
The envelope came next.
It was old. The paper yellowed, the seal slightly brittle. Inside was a single sheet of typewritten paper. No greeting. No signature. Just raw urgency.
---
To whoever finds this—
If you're reading this, I'm gone. That means something has gone wrong. Very wrong.
This isn't about me. It's about what we did. What we thought we could control.
The formula was never meant to fall into the wrong hands. We used it when the system broke. When the judges were bought. When the murderers walked. It was never supposed to become routine.
But the others… they got greedy. Comfortable. Righteous.
And one by one, they started disappearing.
Halrick is still alive. I think. If you've found the vial, he'll come for it. Or someone he's trained will.
Don't trust the police. Don't go to the news.
And for the love of God—don't try to use it.
Unless you're ready to kill.
---
Ethan stared at the letter, then at the vial.
It was heavier than he expected—glass, thick and cold, sealed with a metal cap that looked almost industrial. Inside was a milky-white substance, suspended in a gel-like fluid. It didn't move much when tilted, but it shimmered under light.
A tiny printed label read: F-D.07
"Formula D," he whispered aloud.
What the hell was his father involved in?
He sat down heavily, the photo, the vial, and the letter spread in front of him like a puzzle missing half its pieces. Something deeper than curiosity crawled into his spine.
This wasn't some wartime relic.
This was active.
Still in play. Still dangerous. Still
… relevant.
He stared at the box.
What if the rest of the pieces were in there?
---
To be continued in Part 2...