I Am Not The Only Monster In This Story

The family library had always felt more like a relic than a resource, a mausoleum of outdated officialdom rather than a living collection of knowledge.

Its shelves groaned under the weight of ancient legislative binders bound in cracking leather, obsolete economic forecasts yellowing at the edges, and sanitized, self-serving biographies of powerful men whose influence had waned decades ago, likely relatives or associates long forgotten by the wider world.

Dust flowed in the infrequent shafts of light that cut through tall, grimy windows, and the air was flush with the scent of aged paper and neglect. Still, for all its oppressive history, it was quiet. Profoundly, reliably quiet. It gave her space to think, a sanctuary away from the bustling, noisy energy of the main house.

Maisie sat curled deep in the embrace of one of its cavernous, faded velvet armchairs, the plush worn smooth by generations of occupation. In her lap lay a huge, utilitarian folder, a relic of the late 20th century itself, borrowed for a policy comparison essay that felt more like an exercise in endurance than academic inquiry.

She hadn't expected much, just another dry, statistical overview of post-war labor law reform, a necessary evil for her degree. Page after predictable page detailed acts, amendments, and committee notes in dense, grey blocks of text.

But halfway through the file, as she turned a particularly weighty section, a single page slipped out. It didn't slide neatly from between two others; it seemed to have been tucked or lodged within the bulk of the document itself. It didn't match the formatting at all.

The paper was slightly different, crisper, the print sharper. There was no official header, no legal jargon, no university logo, and tellingly, no author or source indicated anywhere.

Just a series of short, clinical notes and line-item dates, stark and unadorned against the white background, hinting at actions or events observed with a disturbing, dispassionate brevity.

Although surveillance logs were typically stored digitally in the family's sophisticated systems, this printed report may have been left deliberately in the library, a place Maisie had been explicitly warned to avoid.

The physical copy acted as a backup against digital tampering, but more importantly, it was kept where only those with full clearance, or the curiosity to defy orders, might stumble upon it. The printed paper wasn't hidden in the traditional sense, but its location served as a subtle barrier: accessible yet off-limits, a quiet test of who would seek the truth despite warnings.

She frowned, her brow creasing with a mix of confusion and unease, as she smoothed the crumpled paper flat against the cold metal table. The dim light of the hidden room cast long shadows across the page, making the typed words stand out like accusations.

Her fingers lingered on the edges, tracing the faint ink smudges as if they might reveal more secrets.

"Subject 8 exhibiting early-stage cognitive leak." The words hit her like a whisper from a forgotten nightmare, cold and clinical. Who was 8? Was it Igor? That was his name initially when he started working in the Lennox Mansion ten years ago. She read on, her heart quickening.

Schedule additional sublingual doses. Inhibitors failing under social stressors. Doses? Inhibitors? The terminology twisted in her mind like barbed wire, evoking images of sterile labs and forced compliance.

She imagined Igor, his face strained, struggling against whatever invisible chains these "stressors" represented, perhaps the crowded hallways, the forced interactions, the endless monitoring. It wasn't just medical jargon; it was a sign that someone was cracking under the pressure, and the system was scrambling to patch the leaks.

"Observed increased proximity to 002-Dashiel. Possible recognition pattern developing." Dashiel, Dash. Her pulse skipped. It sounded like they were being watched, their every move cataloged as if they were experiments in a lab, not people with lives and memories.

"Avoid unsupervised exposure to 001-Maisie until re-evaluation is complete." Her designation, 001, Maisie, stared back at her like a brand. That was her. Not a name, but a number, a code in some vast, impersonal database.

The realization slammed into her chest, stealing her breath. They were tracking her, monitoring her interactions, and treating her as a variable in an equation. What had she done to warrant this? A chat with her brother Dash, a moment of vulnerability with Igor, were those the "exposures" they feared?

Maisie went still, her body freezing in place as if the room itself had turned to ice. The paper trembled slightly in her grip, but she didn't dare move. Her name. Dash's name. Igor's designation.

It wasn't ancient history or a forgotten file; it was real-time surveillance, a web of eyes and ears woven into the fabric of their lives.

They weren't free; they were subjects in a grand experiment, and now, with this damning evidence in her hands, she had to decide, run, fight, or fade into the shadows before they came for her.

She rifled through the worn manila folder again, the paper edges soft and frayed under her desperate fingers. Names, dates, cryptic notes, nothing directly relevant to the questions that gnawed at her.

But then, near the back, tucked haphazardly between a faded photograph and a brittle report, was a small slip of paper. It was thin, yellowed, the ink faint and barely legible, as if scribbled in haste or under poor conditions.

Maisie squinted, holding it closer to the dim light, fingers tracing the faint loops of the handwriting. She read the first line, then the second, and a cold dread began to coil in her stomach.

"Trigger phrase adjusted."

What did that even mean? A phrase... adjusted? It sounded clinical, mechanical. She moved on, her breath catching in her throat.

"Memory stability reset."

Reset? The word hit her like a physical blow. Memory. Her memories felt... fractured sometimes. Hazy. Like pieces were missing or deliberately obscured. A sickening realization began to dawn, sharp and terrifying.

She forced her eyes to the final line, the spidery writing blurring for a second before snapping back into focus:

"All personnel reminded: subject remains a valuable asset pending reevaluation."

Subject. Asset. Not a person. Property. And the reevaluation... of what? Her value?

Maisie's breath hitched. The world tilted. She wasn't just reading about some abstract operation; she was reading about herself. The subject. It explained the gaps, the strange compulsions, the feeling that parts of her weren't truly hers.

The trigger phrase. The reset memories. They had been changed, wiped, and manipulated. She was an asset, an object to be controlled, her mind a program to be adjusted.

Her mouth went dry. Her hands began to tremble violently, the small slip a damning indictment of her very existence. Her heartbeat wasn't just thudding; it was a frantic drumbeat against her ribs, a desperate animal trying to escape a cage. The folder in her lap suddenly felt impossibly heavy, containing not just paper but the horrifying truth of her compromised reality.

She slammed it shut too fast, the sharp sound echoing in the sudden, ringing silence of her shock. The world outside the folder seemed distant, unreal. Everything she thought she knew about herself had just shattered.

This wasn't some old memo left by mistake. Someone had tucked this here, either careless or arrogant enough to assume no one would look too closely.

She stood, grabbed her tablet, and typed in a new page of notes, not for college.

"Household surveillance?"

"Alucard conditioning—real? Systemic?"

"Igor = subject?"

"Dash in danger?"

She closed the tablet and clutched it to her chest. She couldn't ignore this. And she wasn't sure who she could trust.