Chapter 5 Shadows in the Gallery

By the time Damian's car rolled into the outskirts of Cambridge, dusk had already swallowed the skyline. The roads were narrow, slick with recent rain, and the air hummed with the quiet restlessness of a city too polite to show its secrets.

Elena hadn't spoken for the last hour. She sat rigid in the passenger seat, her gaze fixed on the lights streaking past the window. Every reflection of the wet pavement, the glowing traffic lights seemed to mirror fragments of her confusion.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. You think Lang's still alive?

Damian's grip tightened on the steering wheel. If he isn't, someone's using his trail to lead us somewhere.

Then why send me his file? she murmured. Why now?

Because something's changing, he said, glancing at her. "The foundation's shifting its structure. My mother's been attending board meetings in secret. The estate finances have been redacted for months. Someone's moving pieces we can't see.

And we're just pawns on the board, she muttered.

Damian's jaw clenched, but he didn't disagree.

The address from the mysterious message led them to an abandoned wing of the Foster Institute for Biomedical Research, a sprawling building that loomed at the edge of the river, its façade cracked and ivy-choked. A single floodlight flickered above the main entrance, throwing long, uneasy shadows across the front steps.

Elena shivered. "Are you sure this is it?

Damian checked the GPS again. "This is the place. Lang's name was tied to this facility before he vanished."

They pushed through the rusted doors. Inside, the hall smelled of damp paper and chemicals long evaporated. Their footsteps echoed through the darkness, the sound unnervingly hollow.

Rows of portraits lined the corridor of men and women who had once run the institute. But someone had taken a knife to their faces. Each painting had a jagged gash where the eyes should have been.

Who would do this? Elena whispered.

Someone erasing history, Damian murmured. Just like they tried to erase you."

The deeper they went, the colder it grew. The emergency lights flickered, bathing the walls in a faint red pulse. It felt less like a research facility and more like a tomb.

They reached the main gallery, an enormous room once used for exhibitions. Broken glass littered the floor. In the center stood a single pedestal, its display case cracked but still intact. Inside, under a sheet of dust, lay a portrait.

Elena froze.

It was the same style, the same brushwork as the one she'd been restoring at Blackstone Manor, but this painting was finished.

And the woman in it was her mother.

María Cruz stood immortalized in oil and pigment, her dark hair pulled back, her gaze hauntingly alive. But the signature in the bottom corner wasn't her mother's.

It read: Victor Devereux.

Elena's breath caught. He painted her?

Damian moved closer, his voice thick. He must have. My father was obsessed with immortalizing perfection. He used art to hide science.

She turned to him. To hide it?

He nodded toward the frame. Look at the edges.

Elena leaned in. Beneath the brushstrokes, almost invisible, were faint codes etched into the pigment sequences of letters and numbers. It wasn't just art, it was data. Genetic data hidden within layers of paint.

This isn't a portrait, she whispered. It's a map.

To what? Damian asked.

To whatever Project Heirloom really is.

A sudden crash echoed through the gallery. Both turned sharply, flashlight beams slicing through the dark.

From the far corner, a shadow darted between the pillars.

"Who's there?" Damian called out, his voice echoing.

No answer.

He motioned for Elena to stay behind, but she shook her head. "I'm not staying alone."

They moved together, slow and silent, the beam of the flashlight trembling as it swept across peeling walls and toppled easels. The sound came again, a metallic clang, followed by hurried footsteps.

Then a voice hoarse, trembling called out from the darkness. "Don't turn on the lights!"

Damian froze. "Dr. Lang?"

A figure stepped into the half-light. Thin. Gaunt. His face was pale under the flicker of emergency red. His once-white lab coat was stained and frayed, but his sharp, haunted eyes recognized Damian instantly.

"You shouldn't have come here," he rasped. They'll know.

Elena stepped forward, emotion cracking her voice. "You sent me the email."

Lang's gaze flicked to her. For a heartbeat, he didn't breathe. Then, softly: "You survived."

Her chest tightened. You knew me.

I delivered you, he said hoarsely. "Your mother begged me to save you. I smuggled you out the night the lab burned.

Damian stared, stunned. Burned?

Lang nodded. Victor discovered what we were doing. When he realized the experiment had succeeded twins, both viable, he panicked. He wanted only one heir. The 'perfect' one. I hid you, but he found María. She refused to leave. She destroyed everything to protect you.

Elena felt her legs weaken. She died in the fire.

"No," Lang whispered. "She drowned herself the next day. Guilt. Grief. I don't know which. But she left something behind."

He pulled a small metal drive from his pocket and pressed it into her palm. "Project Heirloom wasn't just about genetics. It was about replication-recreating a bloodline that never dies.

Damian's brow furrowed. You mean cloning.

Lang shook his head. Worse. Blending genetic material with bio-engineered code. He wanted to breed intelligent lineages that could never decay, never forget.

Elena stared at him, horror dawning. Then what are we?

Lang's eyes glistened. You're both what he wanted most and what he feared most. Two sides of the same creation. One pure, one unpredictable.

Before Damian could ask more, the gallery's main lights blazed on, blinding white.

Lang recoiled. "No, no, they found us!"

A voice rang out through the loudspeakers, smooth and cold.

Hello, Dr. Lang. Hello, my children. Elena froze. That voice.

Vivienne, Damian whispered.

The speakers crackled softly, her tone chillingly composed. You didn't think I'd let you walk into the lion's den unobserved, did you?

Elena's pulse pounded. You were tracking us.

Of course, Vivienne said. I've been cleaning up Victor's mess for twenty years. And you, Eleanor, you're the last loose thread.

Lang turned to them, panicked. She's activated the fail-safes. You have to leave now.

What fail-safes? Damian demanded.

Lang pointed to the ceiling. "The building's wired with autoclave sterilization protocols. She'll burn all evidence, files, and us.

A metallic hiss filled the air. The vents above began releasing thin streams of smoke and chemical sterilants.

Run!. Lang shouted.

Damian grabbed Elena's hand. They sprinted toward the exit, boots sliding on shattered glass, alarms wailing. The air grew acrid, thick with heat. Behind them, Lang staggered, coughing violently.

Elena turned. Dr. Lang!

He waved her off, shouting through the haze. Take the drive and find the gallery under the manor! The originals are His words broke into a scream as a blast ripped through the corridor, swallowing him in flame.

"Lang!" Damian roared, but the explosion's force threw them backward. Elena hit the ground hard, her ears ringing.

When the smoke cleared, the entire wing was ablaze.

Damian pulled her up, dragging her through the collapsing hall. They burst through the main doors just as the windows behind them shattered outward in a burst of fire and glass.

Outside, the night swallowed them again-sirens wailing in the distance.

They stumbled down the steps, coughing, gasping. The flash drive was still clutched in Elena's hand, its metal scorched but intact.

She looked at it, tears cutting through soot on her cheeks. He died because of this.

Damian steadied her, his own face ash-streaked. Then whatever's on that drive, whatever he risked everything for, we make sure it doesn't die with him.

Back in the distance, the institute burned, its flames reflected in the river like a second sun. Elena watched it collapse in on itself, the roof falling like a dying breath.

Damian spoke quietly beside her. He said there was a gallery under the manor.

Elena nodded slowly. And that's where the originals are.

The originals of what?

She turned toward him, her voice trembling. Of us.

The silence that followed was heavier than the smoke that still clung to the air.

Hours later, as they drove away, Elena glanced at Damian. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw set, but there was something haunted in his eyes, a fear not of death, but of truth.

Do you ever think, she said softly, that maybe some secrets aren't meant to be found?

He looked at her, his voice quiet, almost broken. We crossed that line the moment we opened the vault.

Outside, the night stretched endlessly. Behind them, Cambridge smoldered. Ahead, Blackstone waited in its portrait gallery, whispering with memories too vivid to stay silent much longer.

And deep beneath that house, where sea mist met stone, something ancient stirred, awakened its heartbeat pulsing faintly in the dark, as if it had been waiting for its lost heirs to return.