Samantha leans forward, her eyes sharpening. "What did you see, Pop-pop? What did they do at Daedalus?"

  I shake my head, trying to organize memories that have been deliberately compartmentalized for years. "It wasn't what they did. It was how they thought about what they were doing. To them, it wasn't a prison with people inside - it was a containment facility for hazardous materials that happened to look human."

  The construction site materializes around me again. Three months in, and Daedalus is taking shape - the outer shell nearly complete, the inner structures rising like a labyrinth of concrete and steel. I'm reviewing seam integrity with my foreman when Cross appears, now a familiar presence on site. He's not alone this time.

  "Mr. Small," Cross greets me with his usual economy of expression. "Time for another round of tests."

  I nod, already accustomed to the routine. Every two weeks, Cross and his team stress-test our environmental barriers - subjecting them to extreme pressures, temperatures, and other conditions far beyond what nature could deliver. It's about powers, of course, though no one says this explicitly. Testing whether a weather manipulator could flood the facility, whether a pyrokinetic could burn through the barriers, whether someone with super-strength could punch their way out.

  "Same sectors as last time?" I ask, reaching for my clipboard.

  "New focus today," Cross replies. "We're evaluating isolation protocols for the specialized containment units."

  I follow him through the partially completed corridors, past areas still swarming with workers, into a section I haven't visited before. Unlike the standard cells taking shape throughout the facility, these rooms are... different. Smaller. More heavily reinforced. Triple-layer walls with specialized membranes between each layer.

  "What am I looking at?" I ask, though I already have suspicions.

  "Isolation units for Class S inmates," Cross says matter-of-factly.

  "Class S?"

  "Special containment cases. Individuals whose abilities present unique management challenges."

  We enter a completed test cell. The space is perhaps eight by ten feet, with walls, floor, and ceiling formed from a continuous pour of specialized concrete. No windows. A single door with multiple sealing mechanisms. And most disturbingly, attachment points embedded in the walls and floor.

  "Are those for restraints?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

  Cross glances at the metal loops. "Anchors for specialized containment equipment. The specifics aren't relevant to your testing."

  Before I can ask more questions, the rest of the test team arrives. Five individuals, each with a professional detachment that makes Cross seem positively warm by comparison. Among them, a man whose presence immediately dominates the room - tall, broad-shouldered, with olive skin and dark, carefully styled hair. Unlike the others in their tactical gear or functional clothing, he wears a crisp white dress shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows and tailored dark pants. His eyes scan the room with clinical precision, seeming to catalog every detail.

  "Espinosa," Cross acknowledges with a slight nod. Not "Mr. Espinosa" but just the name, the familiarity suggesting a relationship beyond professional courtesy.

  Espinosa returns the nod but says nothing, moving to inspect the cell's features with methodical attention. His fingers trail along the seams where wall meets ceiling, testing with a pressure that seems casual but isn't.

  "Mr. Small," Cross continues, "your team has completed the environmental sealing for this unit. Today we're testing its capacity to maintain integrity under extreme stress. I'll be attempting to breach the barriers using various chemical compounds."

  I nod, slipping into professional mode despite my discomfort. "We've implemented the specialized sealants as specified. All transitions between surfaces have been treated with the carbon-polymer compound, and the ventilation system includes the activated charcoal filters."

  "Good." Cross steps to the center of the cell. "Everyone out. Observation will be from the monitoring station."

  We file out, the heavy door sealing behind us with a pneumatic hiss. The monitoring station is a temporary setup in an adjacent room, with screens showing the cell interior from multiple angles. Cross stands alone inside, rolling up his sleeves.

  "Beginning standard protocol," says a technician, adjusting controls on a panel.

  On the screen, Cross extends his hands, palms down. A viscous black substance begins to ooze from his skin—not like sweat or blood, but something thicker, more deliberate. It pools on the floor beneath him, spreading outward in a widening circle.

  "Compound A," the technician notes. "Standard petroleum base with accelerants."

  The black liquid reaches the walls and begins to climb them, seeking seams, testing corners.

  "Increasing toxicity," Cross says, his voice coming through speakers with a metallic quality.

  The substance changes consistency, becoming thinner, more vaporous. The air in the cell begins to fill with a dark haze that creeps toward the ventilation grates like probing fingers.

  "Ventilation response," the technician prompts.

  Another technician activates a sequence on her terminal. The ventilation system kicks in, drawing the vapors toward ceiling vents where specialized filters capture the contaminants.

  "Transition to Compound B."

  The scene repeats with variations - Cross producing different substances from his body, each targeting specific vulnerabilities in the cell's design. Some are corrosive, eating into the concrete. Others are flammable, igniting in controlled bursts. Still others seem designed to test pressure differentials or air quality systems.

  Throughout it all, Espinosa watches in silence, his expression unchanged, his attention never wavering. There's something unnerving about his stillness, like a predator conserving energy before a kill.

  After nearly an hour, Cross has exhausted his arsenal of toxic compounds. The cell shows minor cosmetic damage - discoloration, superficial etching - but its structural integrity remains uncompromised. The ventilation systems have successfully contained and neutralized each threat. Certain ones activated the sprinklers.

  "You've done good work here, Small," Espinosa says, quietly. I place his accent immediately - Israeli. He must be one of the four or five Mossad agents on-site.

  "Oh, pish, posh. We're not the HVAC guys. Save your praise for them, instead," I reply, trying to keep a sense of modesty about the whole thing.

  "It's important to protect from weather on the inside and on the outside. You understand the assignment better than most," Espinosa answers, quiet and stern. "Many of the people here still aren't used to the idea that we are living through a change in how the world considers security. 'Inside' and 'Outside' are increasingly becoming a matter of perspective, not of geography. It's good to have people like you and John here."

  I remember that the praise felt good at the time. Warm, but like the sort of warmth you get from a fever. Heady. "I used to read a lot of comic books. It's not as big of a paradigm shift as you'd expect if you're a big nerd," I joke, but he doesn't laugh.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Three weeks later, I'm reviewing updated structural specs with John Horvath in our temporary on-site office.

  "These reinforcements are extreme," John says, frowning at the new requirements. "We're talking military bunker levels now, not just weatherproofing."

  "That's what they want," I reply, trying to sound matter-of-fact rather than troubled. "After the stress tests, they're concerned about structural integrity under 'maximum load conditions.'"

  John doesn't ask what those conditions might be. We've both learned not to inquire too deeply about certain aspects of the project. "It'll add twenty percent to the cost, at least."

  "They've authorized the increase," I say. "Money doesn't seem to be an object for this client."

  John shrugs. "Their budget, their choices. I'll get the team working on the revisions."

  As he leaves, I remain at my desk, staring at the blueprints. The cell that Espinosa damaged has been circled in red, with annotations about reinforcement requirements. But it's not just that cell - it's all of them, the entire isolation wing. Each one being transformed into an impenetrable box that could withstand the fury of a hurricane or the impact of a wrecking ball.

  Or the desperation of someone trapped inside.

  The thought surfaces unbidden, uncomfortable. I push it away, focusing on technical specifications, material requirements, scheduling impacts. These are concrete problems I can solve, unlike the nagging ethical questions that have begun to shadow this project.

  "It's just a building," I mutter to myself. "A secure building for people who need to be secured."

  Sam is looking at me, waiting. Back in the now, twenty years later. "Pop-pop? Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine," I say, shaking off the memories. "Just... remembering things I haven't thought about in a long time."

  "So you did have concerns," she prompts. "About Daedalus."

  "Yes," I admit. "Not at first. Initially, it was just another job - a prestigious one, certainly, but still just infrastructure. Weatherproofing, environmental controls, structural reinforcement. The kind of work we'd done for government facilities before."

  "But it changed," she says. Not a question, a statement.

  I nod slowly. "The requirements kept... escalating. More isolation. More containment. More redundancies. Always framed in terms of safety and security, but gradually, it felt like something else was driving the design. Something like fear."

  Sam leans forward. "And Belle figured this out? That's why she was investigating?"

  "No," I say, shaking my head. "When Belle came to me, years later, she was investigating something more specific. The systematic dismantling of rehabilitation programs at Daedalus. The shift from containment-plus-treatment to pure isolation. She wanted to know when and why that had happened."

  "And did you know?"

  I shrug. "I had theories. Budget cuts. Policy changes between administrations. The usual bureaucratic drift that happens when ideals meet reality. But she wasn't satisfied with that explanation. She kept digging, kept asking questions."

  "About what?"

  "About who had really been calling the shots during construction. About certain 'consultants' who had unusual influence over the design. About test protocols that seemed excessive even for a maximum-security facility."

  Sam's eyes widen slightly. I can hear the gears turning behind her eyes. Definitely Leah's eyes. But not Leah's eye color, and not Camilla's either. I have to imagine it's Victor's.

  I hesitate. "She was working from prison records, inmate testimonies. But on her third visit, she brought photographs. People she suspected were involved in what she called 'systemic abuses' at Daedalus. Laundry lists. Did you recognize this man? How about this one? I told her what I could."

  She looks away from me, and back towards her notebooks. A bin on the floor beneath her feet.

  "Belle came to you because your company worked on Daedalus," she says finally. "But that doesn't explain why she was interested in you specifically. There must have been dozens of contractors."

  Perceptive girl. Too perceptive sometimes. "She had accessed some internal documents. Found that I'd filed anonymous concerns about certain aspects of the design. Nothing dramatic - just technical notes questioning some of the more extreme isolation features. She thought I might be sympathetic to her investigation."

  "But they were anonymous?" Sam asks. Before I can answer, she answers her own thought. "She deduced it was you."

  I smile back at her. "She was good at what she did. Who else would complain about the weatherproofing but the weatherproofer?"

  "Were you? Sympathetic, I mean."

  "I wanted to be," I say honestly. "I admired what she was trying to do. But I was also... conflicted."

  "Because of your involvement?"

  "Partly," I acknowledge. I put both hands up on my lap, like I'm trying to placate someone. "Daedalus isn't a prison, not really. It's a living thing. All buildings are, just some of them are more alive than others. Prisons. Schools. There are certain kinds of places that keep growing and changing and mutating. Daedalus was a hungry beast, and every time a problem came up, they threw more money at the problem to band-aid it over. They weren't interested in contracting Horvath-Small again. Maybe for security. Maybe I had just pissed the wrong person off. So they brought in a rotating cast of contractors, and they were all... not good."

  Sam's eyes narrow. "What do you mean they weren't good?"

  "Engineers with half the experience charging twice as much," I explain, the old frustration resurfacing. "Cutting corners, ignoring specifications, substituting inferior materials. Horvath and I built things to last - these people built things to invoice."

  "And that bothered you," Sam says. "Because they were compromising safety?"

  I pause, considering her question. "Yes... and no. Part of me was offended professionally - seeing shoddy work replacing our careful engineering. But another part..." I trail off, struggling to articulate something I've never fully admitted even to myself.

  "Another part of you was almost relieved," Sam suggests quietly. "That maybe the prison wouldn't be as perfect as you'd designed it to be."

  I look at her, surprised by her perception. "Yes," I admit. "Though I never said that out loud before. What kind of engineer hopes his work fails?"

  "A human one," Sam says. "Someone who realized what he was actually building."

  "Maybe," I concede. "Or maybe just someone trying to sleep at night by telling himself comforting lies. That I was just doing my job. That I couldn't have known how it would be used. That at least someone less competent came after me."

  "That's..." Samantha looks for the words. I can tell she's searching that incredible vocabulary Rachel gave her. "Not good," is what she comes up with.

  "No," I agree softly. "It isn't. That's the dilemma. There are no clean answers here, bubelah. Just different kinds of mess."

  Sam looks down at the notebook between us, her fingers tracing the worn leather. "Belle thought it was worth investigating anyway."

  "She did," I confirm. "And maybe she was right. She certainly had more courage than I did."

  "Did she find anything? Before she..."

  "Died?" I finish when she trails off. "I don't know. Our last meeting was about six months before her death. She was focused on someone named Illya by then, not Daedalus."

  Sam nods, her expression unreadable, but darker. "So that's it? That's all you know?"

  I hesitate, weighing what to share and what to hold back. There's more - there's always more. But some secrets aren't mine to tell, and some truths won't help her, only burden her. I'm not concerned about NDAs anymore, just what's right to tell this little girl who I know will take this knowledge and do something... well, something Sam-like with it.

  "There was one more thing," I say finally. "In our last conversation about Daedalus, Belle showed me a photograph of a man she called 'Porcelain.' Asked if I recognized him."

  Sam's breath catches. There. Whatever it is she was digging for, that was it. Alright, Sambina. I'll give you my old treasure. "And did you?"

  "He looked... familiar," I admit carefully. "Like someone I might have seen during the construction, maybe one of Cross's colleagues. But it had been years, and I couldn't be certain. Belle seemed particularly interested in him, though. Said there were rumors he'd been instrumental in the facility's design, despite having no official connection to the project."

  "What kind of rumors?"

  I shrug. "She didn't elaborate, and I didn't press. Whatever she suspected about him, it was enough to keep her digging, even after most of her other leads had gone cold. The last time we ever met, all she wanted to know is if I had seen him. And I told her, probably. He looked familiar. Like a man I had met during the project named 'Espinosa'. And that seemed to satisfy her."

  "And you never heard anything more about it?"

  "No," I say truthfully. "Like I said, she moved on to other investigations. But when she left that day, she seemed... troubled. Not just professionally, but personally. Whatever she'd uncovered about this Porcelain character, it worried her."

  Sam processes this, her eyes distant as she connects dots I can't see. "Thank you for telling me, Pop-pop. I know it's not easy to talk about."

  I reach across the bed and squeeze her hand. "Your grandmother would be proud of you, you know. Not because you're fighting bad guys - though she'd admire that too - but because you care about doing what's right, even when it's hard."

  Sam swallows hard, blinking rapidly. "Thanks, Pop-pop."

  "Now," I say, glancing at my watch, "I believe I promised your father I'd help him with something. Should we go downstairs before he sends a search party?"

  Sam nods, carefully closing the notebook and returning it to its box. But as we head for the door, she pauses.

  "Pop-pop? One last question."

  "Yes?"

  "Do you regret it? Working on Daedalus?"

  I consider the question carefully, giving it the weight it deserves. "I regret not asking more questions," I say finally. "I regret accepting explanations that I knew were incomplete. I regret prioritizing the contract over my conscience in certain moments."

  I pause, gathering my thoughts.

  "But do I regret the work itself? That's harder to answer. The people in Daedalus are dangerous, Samantha. Many of them have killed without remorse. Some would do it again given the chance. Someone has to build the walls that keep the rest of us safe."

  "But at what cost?" she asks quietly.

  I smile at her, trying to keep things from getting too heavy. "Those are the right questions to be asking, darling. The ones I should've asked more, and the ones I hope you keep asking."