BLOODCAPE
Chapter 125: Voiceprints

Chapter 125: Chapter 125: Voiceprints

The interior of the biotech facility breathed with artificial stillness — not decay, not dereliction, but dormancy.

Pale overhead lights flickered once, dim and uneven, as if waking reluctantly. The smell was clinical rot: rust, ozone, something vaguely chemical buried beneath years of abandonment. A dull green glow pulsed from cracked emergency strips along the floor. Power still trickled through the veins of this place. Just enough to matter. Just enough to feel... intentional.

Hernan stepped through a narrow corridor, boots silent on tile. The door behind sealed shut with a pneumatic hiss. Ahead, the hallway branched.

"Clear left," Nico said over the team channel, glancing past a broken med-pod casing. "Bio-tags negative. Heat sigs minimal."

"Copy," Hernan replied. "I’m checking rear access stairwell."

"Gemini and I will hold the main corridor."

Gemini didn’t respond. She hadn’t said a word since they’d entered.

Hernan moved deeper, brushing past sagging cables and shattered signage. His light caught faded lettering above the archway: CELLTRACE MEDI-LAB.

The stairwell was rusted out, but the door marked Sub-Maintenance: Authorized Techs Only buzzed faintly at his presence.

Still powered.

He palmed the lockpad.

The door slid open with a soft click.

The room beyond was tight, almost claustrophobic. Just a cot, server racks, and a dusty console. One mug. One half-lit terminal. Blue standby lights blinking like a slow, artificial heartbeat. The air was cold and preserved.

And something in him moved.

Not fear.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

Hernan paused at the threshold. His breathing changed — subtly. A new tempo. Three-count inhale. Two-count exhale. Smooth. Trained.

He didn’t remember learning that pattern.

His hand brushed the server casing. Fingers spread wide. Palm flat. Muscle memory guided the motion.

Calibrate the left-side coil before you loop the signal.

The voice wasn’t his. Not out loud. Not even clearly present.

But it was there.

Old. Faint. Like someone had whispered it into his bones long ago and never took it back.

The console screen blinked. Cursor waiting.

His hand twitched. A single near-keystroke.

But he didn’t know what he was about to type.

Footsteps.

Hernan spun too fast.

Nico stood in the doorway, one brow raised. "This where they kept the monsters?"

Hernan stared at him. A full second passed before the right name surfaced.

"Dax," he said.

Nico blinked. "What?"

Hernan’s jaw flexed. "Sorry. Thought you were someone else."

But the name hung in the air like smoke. Heavy. Wrong.

Nico squinted at him. "You alright, man? You look like you just remembered a dream that never belonged to you."

"I’m fine."

Behind him, Gemini entered.

She didn’t speak at first. Her attention drifted not to the tech, but to the wall. She crossed to an old locker marked BIOSEAL – GEN:4A and pressed her hand against it.

Like she was searching for heat.

Or memory.

"He used to come here," she murmured.

Not to them. Not as explanation. As memory.

And Hernan said — too fast — "I know."

The silence after that was immediate.

Gemini turned. Her eyes locked on his.

And he knew.

He wasn’t supposed to know that.

There was no file. No record. No mission that matched this place. No reason Hernan Solari should recognize this facility.

But he had.

Like fact. Like habit.

Gemini stepped closer, slow.

Not cautious. Not aggressive.

Curious.

She studied his face like tracing a half-forgotten equation on broken glass.

"Hernan," she said softly, "you’re not wearing your own voice."

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because in that moment — with the hum of the server behind him and a cadence still lingering in his breath — he wasn’t sure she was wrong.

Below the Tower, Academy Archive Vault – Later That Night

The Gemini confession footage had already been scrubbed from public servers.

Officially, it never existed.

But Leo had a copy.

He always did.

The archive room was built for silence. No AI surveillance, no digital assistants, no auto-logging. Just analog redundancies and a cold, manual interface. A place meant for things that should never echo.

The screen flickered to life. Cold blue light washed over Leo’s face.

Hernan sat at one end of the table. Backlit by Gemini Tower’s skyline. Across from him, the female twin. Her voice low. Steady. Confessing.

Leo didn’t watch her.

He watched him.

Playback: 1.0x.

Hernan blinked twice. Too slow.

0.75x.

Jaw ticked at Solaris’s name.

0.5x.

That was it.

Hernan didn’t react like someone hearing of a stranger’s death.

He reacted like someone remembering it.

Leo leaned closer. Frame by frame. A breath. A flicker. A twitch of a smile too familiar to be mimicry.

He paused.

Swapped to a snapshot from the official memorial logs: Solaris, laughing in the Callisto rec wing.

Same smile.

Same angle.

Same man?

A single knuckle tap on the console — tick. Leo didn’t blink.

Not imitation.

Inheritance.

The door behind him clicked open.

He didn’t turn. "You’re not supposed to be down here."

"I get that a lot," said Tessa.

Her voice was calm. Unapologetic.

She stepped inside, hands in her jacket pockets. Eyes on the wall — never the screen.

Leo didn’t close it.

He watched her reflection instead.

"You’re digging," he said.

"So are you."

Silence passed between them like static.

"You see it?" he asked, gesturing to the paused frame.

"I didn’t come to compare notes."

"No. You came to measure mine."

Tessa didn’t flinch. She crossed her arms and studied him.

Leo’s eyes narrowed slightly. "What do you think he is?"

"I don’t know."

"But you don’t think he’s lying."

"I think," she said slowly, "he’s not even sure anymore."

Leo considered that.

"You have something."

"And you have a vault full of things no one else gets to see."

They stood like two sides of a question — not allies, not enemies, but something dangerous in between.

Then Tessa stepped closer.

"If Solaris came back," she asked, "but in the wrong body... would you tell anyone?"

Leo didn’t answer right away.

He watched her now — the subtle tension, the strain in her voice she tried to hide. This wasn’t theory. Not to her.

"If Solaris came back," he said at last, "I’d want to know who let it happen."

Tessa’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not quite.

"Not why?"

"That comes second."

They let that sit.

Leo powered down the console. The room fell to shadow.

He walked to the door. Paused in the frame.

"Then I suggest we both keep listening."

His voice held no heat. No invitation.

Just resolve.

Tessa didn’t move. Didn’t argue.

She stared at the now-dark monitor and whispered:

"Already am."