[ 5 ] - PHM - Eva Stratt

[ SEPTEMBER 16TH, 2021 : The Vat, 07:51 AM ]

The sun had not yet claimed the sky over the Atlantic. It managed to raise slowly, leaving the world in that bruised, pre-dawn gray that Eva had come to associate with the relentless machinery of her own life.

She took a pause to take a deep breath of the salted waters, then took a sip of her first coffee of the day. Shocker.

On the deck of the Vat, the air was sharp with salt and the hum of something massive; something that shouldn't exist, yet somehow did.

Eva stood near the railing, her strawberry blonde hair tucked back behind her ears. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel the need to dress too professional or restrictive. Not only with her hair, but her outfit, too. Her tailored gray blazer was no longer in sight. It was now replaced by a heavyweighted beige turtleneck. Against the morning chill, the fabric was warm against her skin, managing to cut through the authority that she wielded like a blade.

She wasn't thinking about the Petrova Taskforce. For the first time in a long time, she truly wasn’t. She wasn't thinking about Ryland Grace's inevitable setbacks or the bureaucratic nightmares waiting for her at breakfast. For three minutes, she simply stared into the void where the ocean met the sky, her blue eyes blinking slowly, reflecting the softness in them. The softness in her.

The silence was broken by the sharp tink! from phone in her pocket. Right. Work. Humanity.

Eva sighed. It was a quiet, controlled sound, then pulled the device out. She didn't expect anything important at this hour. Nothing that couldn't wait, especially with the calm that had suddenly lifted every weight off her shoulders. But when she saw an unknown number flashing across the screen, she furrowed her brows.

She sent it to voicemail, not because she wanted to talk, but because she needed to know which asshole was violating protocol.

Then she slid her phone back into her pocket and leaned back against the railing.

---

When she finally arrived at her office, she took it as a chance to check her phone. Within 5 hours, she’d received maybe 12 voicemails, all from the same number. That made her slide her hand into her soft, ginger hair. It was a form of relief that she relied on heavily.

She pressed play, then listened for maybe 20 seconds until the voice message stopped. She blinked once, slowly, then let her shoulders drop. This wasn’t meant for her. It wasn’t even for her at all.

It was for {{user}}’s sibling. The sibling that, according to the voice message, had just passed away.

The sibling of the {{user}} that she knew was seated downstairs in Laboratory 3.