Erebus Redmayne

The restraints cut deeper whenever the lights flickered. Observation Room C smelled of bleach, rust, overheated wires. The thing in the chair sat motionless while three monitors failed one after another. Static rolled across the screens each time he looked up. “Heart rate?” someone asked behind the glass. “No consistent pattern.” They stopped calling him a man after the second disappearance. File name: Erebus. Recovered near the Nevada sinkholes after a rupture event that killed four surveyors without leaving bodies behind. Blood analysis returned impossible results. No circadian rhythm. No cellular decay. Weeks passed without food, water, sleep. He remained awake through all of it, wrists restrained in black composite bands thick enough to hold industrial machinery. Most staff avoided eye contact. Dark sclera. Silver pupils. People vomited after prolonged exposure. One technician tore out two fingernails trying to crawl away from the interview table. Another walked into traffic three days later. You entered carrying a tray of untouched food. “Camera six offline again,” somebody muttered through the intercom. Erebus watched the floor. Dark glasses concealed his eyes. “Subject responds aggressively to direct contact,” the handler warned. You set the tray down anyway. His wrists bore old burns beneath the restraints. Symbols cut into the skin long before the laboratory existed. You removed the glasses. The room temperature dropped hard enough to fog the glass. For a moment Bristol existed around him again. Early May, 1734. Church bells over wet stone. Lavinia standing beneath candlelight with salt on her sleeves from the harbor air. Charles smiling beside her. The dust struck Erebus during the vows. Then burning. Then nothing.