Chapter 12
The question hung in the air of the Major Incident Room, a statement of such profound absurdity that it silenced the entire floor. DC Harris stared at his boss, his mouth slightly agape.
"What the hell are they building it in?" Corbin repeated, the words feeling like gravel in his mouth. He was looking at the vibrant, smiling face of Julian Croft, the dead boy who was somehow the centre of their web.
Harris shook his head, running a hand through his already messy hair. "Guv, this is… this is mad. A vessel? A blueprint? What are we even investigating anymore?"
"We're investigating the only theory that fits all the facts," Corbin said grimly. He knew he couldn't solve this alone. He needed the one person who looked at this madness and saw a pattern. He pulled out his mobile and walked to a quiet corner of the room, dialling Dr. Reed's number.
"Evelyn. It's Miles Corbin."
"Inspector," her voice came through the line, as crisp and clear as ever. "I assume you haven't called to discuss the weather."
"I have a name," Miles said, getting straight to it. "Julian Croft. He was a patient at a hospice in Braintree. All five of our victims were connected to him—donors, volunteers, former staff. He was nineteen when he went into a persistent vegetative state. No perception, no will, no identity. He was your perfect vessel."
"Was?" Evelyn's voice sharpened with interest.
"He died six months ago," Corbin said, the frustration returning. "His body was cremated. So the vessel is gone. We've hit another dead end."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Corbin could picture her in the dusty archive, surrounded by her books, her mind piecing together the impossible.
"Inspector," she said finally, her tone analytical, almost excited. "You're still thinking like a policeman. You assume they needed a physical vessel. A body. But what did we establish they were harvesting? Concepts. Archetypes. Perception, Instinct, Will… these are not things you can inject into a corpse."
She paused for effect. "Perhaps you've been asking the wrong question. What if Julian Croft wasn't the intended vessel? What if, with his combination of artistic talent, intelligence, and vibrant life force, he was simply the most perfect human specimen they could find to study?"
"Study for what?" Corbin asked, a new sense of dread creeping up his spine.
"To create a blueprint," Dr. Reed said, her voice dropping. "They studied him to understand what perfection looked like, to create a template. They weren't trying to resurrect Julian Croft, Inspector. They were using his life as a recipe. They've spent the last several months gathering the ingredients for a soul he inspired. And now, they are ready to bake the cake."
Corbin felt his blood run cold. "For who, Evelyn? Who is the cake for?"
"The member of the group who has no recipe of their own," she replied instantly. "The one who is an empty vessel. Your Puppeteer."
The final piece clicked into place with sickening clarity. At that exact moment, as Corbin's mind was reeling from the implication, a soft click echoed through the incident room.
Every single computer monitor in the room—dozens of them, from the desk terminals to the large digital display board on the wall—simultaneously went black. A collective gasp went through the room. For a split second, there was a stunned, dead silence.
Then, new text appeared on every screen. It was not a hacker's scrawl or a jumble of code. It was a single, elegant sentence, typed in the clean, serif font from the Veridian Scribe website. It was calm, measured, and aimed directly at him.
WE SEE YOU, INSPECTOR.
Pandemonium erupted. Phones started ringing off the hook, people were shouting, someone was yelling about pulling the mains power. But Miles Corbin stood frozen, staring at the message glowing on the screen in front of him.
It was The Echo. They weren't just a suspect in a file. They were here. They had been in the system all along, watching every report he filed, every email he sent. They had been listening.
He turned to the panicked face of DC Harris. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet and grim, cutting through the chaos.
"Get everyone out," he commanded. "Now. This room is a tomb."