Scene: The Blackthorn Web

The evidence wall in Reeves's flat had grown into something resembling a conspiracy theorist's fever dream. Maps marked with red pins, photographs connected by string, photocopied journal pages with critical passages highlighted, printouts of property records and financial transactions—all arranged in meticulous patterns that would appear chaotic to anyone but the two people who had spent days organizing it.

Mick stood before the wall, nursing a black coffee that had gone cold hours ago. Four weeks since his separation from Marchosias. The physical symptoms had stabilized into a constant baseline of discomfort—persistent headaches that ebbed and flowed, occasional vertigo when he moved too quickly, and a subtle tremor in his hands that he'd learned to disguise by keeping them in constant motion. The medical authorities would probably call it withdrawal, but Mick knew better. His body was adjusting to the absence of something that had become intrinsic to his functioning.

"Property acquisitions cluster around these three geographic regions," Reeves said, moving a red pin on the map. She wore the focused expression Mick recognized from their days as partners—the one that meant she was seeing connections others might miss. "All of them along what Blackwood called 'energy lines' in his journals."

"Ley lines," Mick corrected automatically. "Ancient pathways where natural energy concentrates. They create thin places—locations where the barriers between realms are naturally weaker."

Reeves shot him a look that was half amusement, half concern. "Still channeling your absent partner?"

"Just remembering what he taught me." Mick moved closer to the map, studying the pattern. "The Blackthorn Institute has been systematically acquiring properties at intersection points—places where multiple ley lines cross. Maximum energy concentration."

"For what purpose, though?" Reeves gestured toward the section of wall covered with technical diagrams and notes from Blackwood's journals. "Blackwood's research shifted focus dramatically about three years ago. His early work focused on binding and banishing—keeping demonic influence out. Then suddenly he's developing techniques for extraction and containment."

Mick nodded, tracing a finger along the timeline they'd constructed from Blackwood's journals. "Something changed his perspective. He went from seeing demons as threats to seeing them as resources."

"Resources for what?"

"That's where the Aggregation comes in." Mick moved to another section of the wall, where they'd pinned photocopies of the most disturbing pages from Blackwood's private journals. "It's not just about extracting and containing essence from individual demons—it's about aggregating it. Combining fragments from multiple sources into a controlled, unified form."

He tapped a diagram that showed what appeared to be a human figure surrounded by complex sigils. "Blackwood's final research focused on creating vessels—humans capable of containing and channeling demonic essence without being overwhelmed by it."

"And Blackwood himself was preparing to be the first successful vessel," Reeves concluded. "The ultimate integration of human consciousness with demonic power."

"Not just integration—transcendence." Mick picked up a journal entry dated just weeks before Blackwood's death. "He believed he could evolve beyond both human and demon—become something entirely new."

"But why kill himself? How does that fit into the process?"

"His suicide wasn't the end—it was just the first step." Mick rubbed his temples, trying to ease the throbbing behind his eyes. "The sigils carved into his body were preparation for the ritual. His death was deliberate—creating an empty vessel, perfectly prepared to house both demonic essence and his own consciousness when returned to it."

"So the ritual itself hasn't happened yet," Reeves realized. "They're planning to fill his prepared body with demonic essence and then somehow restore his human consciousness to it."

"Exactly. The timing had to be precise—the vessel prepared, the essence harvested and ready, the consciousness preserved separately." Mick frowned, piecing together fragments from Blackwood's journals. "From what I can gather, previous attempts failed because they tried to integrate demonic essence while the human consciousness was still present and resistant."

"And that's what creates the Hollow Men," Reeves said, making the connection. "Failed vessels where the integration went wrong."

"Hollow Men?" Mick asked.

"Like what we saw at the Harrington Hotel—humans partially filled with demonic essence but without proper integration. Neither fully human nor fully demonic."

Mick nodded grimly. "Blackwood found a different approach—remove the consciousness first, store it somewhere safe, then integrate the two elements under controlled conditions."

Reeves approached the wall section labeled "PERSONNEL" where they'd gathered what little information they had about the human side of the Blackthorn Institute.

"Judge Blackwood we understand," she said, tapping his photograph. "Board member, lead researcher, and ultimately test subject. Carlton gave us a few other names before he clammed up—mostly mid-level staff and security personnel. But this..." She pointed to a photograph they'd discovered in Blackwood's storage unit—a professional headshot of a woman in her mid-thirties with dark hair pulled back in a severe style, eyes intelligent and focused. "Dr. Victoria Reid, Director of Research. Based on journal references, she was Blackwood's chief collaborator in developing extraction techniques."

"And possibly his rival," Mick added, picking up a journal page. "Listen to this entry from eight months ago: 'Reid continues to accelerate the timeline despite my warnings about stabilization issues. Her enthusiasm for progress outpaces her concern for safety protocols. The techniques work, but at what cost to the subjects? To the operators? To reality itself?'"

"Sounds like she was pushing boundaries even Blackwood found concerning." Reeves studied the woman's photograph more closely. "And yet, a month before his death, he writes this." She read from another journal page: "'Reid's recent behavior suggests growing instability. Moments of clarity and apparent horror at our work, followed by renewed dedication with even greater intensity. I suspect her prolonged exposure to extraction procedures has affected her in ways we didn't anticipate.'"

Mick frowned. "That sounds like someone experiencing doubt about the project."

"Or psychological side effects from working with demonic essence," Reeves countered. "Either way, she's the highest-ranking Blackthorn operative we've identified. And Saunders mentioned she oversees operations at St. Catherine's Hospital—our primary target."

The name triggered another connection in Mick's mind. He moved quickly to the financial records they'd recovered, flipping through pages of transaction logs.

"Here," he said finally, pointing to a recurring payment. "Blackwood was making monthly deposits to a private account under the name Eleanor Crane. Different name entirely."

"A collaborator? Assistant?" Reeves suggested, examining the transaction records.

"Or someone Reid was working with," Mick added. "These payments were regular, substantial, but carefully structured to stay under reporting thresholds."

"Could be someone on the inside," Reeves theorized. "A potential whistleblower or ally that Blackwood was supporting financially."

"The question is whether this Crane person is still involved, and whose side they're on now." Mick stared at Reid's photograph, trying to read the story in her carefully composed features. "If Reid was having moments of clarity, moments of doubt as Blackwood described... perhaps she and this Crane were working with him to undermine the project from within."

"That's a lot of 'what ifs' based on very limited evidence," Reeves cautioned, though Mick could see the idea had captured her interest.

"We need to find her." Mick tapped the photograph. "If anyone knows how to access St. Catherine's, how to navigate the extraction system, how to reverse what happened to Marchosias—it's her."

"And if she's not a whistleblower but a true believer?" Reeves asked. "If she's continuing Blackwood's work with even greater fervor?"

"Then we'll have identified our primary target." Mick's expression hardened. "Either way, finding Dr. Reid is our next move."

Reeves nodded, turning to her laptop. "I'll run her through official channels, see what comes up. Medical licenses, professional registrations, property records—the usual."

While Reeves began her search, Mick returned to the physical evidence they'd gathered. He spread the Blackthorn property records across the coffee table, aligning them with a map of the UK he'd marked with known ley lines. The pattern became clearer as he worked—a web of connected sites, each positioned at points of natural metaphysical significance.

"It's a network," he murmured, seeing the design emerge. "Not just a collection of separate facilities. They're building an interconnected system."

He grabbed a red marker and began connecting the sites on the map, following the ley lines that linked them. The resulting pattern resembled a tree with branches extending across the country—or perhaps more accurately, a root system with St. Catherine's Hospital at its center.

"They're not just extracting essence at individual sites," he realized aloud. "They're channeling it through the natural energy pathways, directing it to a central location."

Reeves looked up from her computer. "What was that?"

"The web." Mick gestured to his newly marked map. "Blackwood called it 'the containment architecture' in his later journals. I thought he was being metaphorical, but he was describing a literal network. Each facility is positioned to take advantage of natural energy flows, creating a channeling system that directs extracted essence to a central point."

"Let me guess—St. Catherine's Hospital."

"Specifically Cell 7B." Mick circled the location on the map. "That's why it's the primary extraction node, why all the bindings are anchored there. It's the focal point of the entire network."

Reeves came over to examine his work. "So breaking the binding there..."

"Could potentially disrupt the entire system," Mick finished. "Release not just Marchosias, but everything they've bound and extracted."

They fell silent, contemplating the implications. The scale of what they were uncovering had grown far beyond a single binding or even a series of isolated experiments. This was systematic, nationwide, meticulously planned and executed.

"I've got something on Reid," Reeves said finally, returning to her computer. "Medical license issued fifteen years ago, specialization in neurology with advanced research credentials. Last official position was with King's College Hospital's neurology department, but she resigned five years ago—right around when Blackthorn was established."

"Current address?"

"Nothing current in the system." Reeves continued scrolling through records. "But I do have a residential property purchased seven years ago in her name, never sold. Upscale apartment in Kensington."

"Worth checking," Mick said, already reaching for his jacket.

"There's more." Reeves's voice had taken on the careful neutrality Mick recognized from delivering potentially disturbing news. "I also ran a search on this Eleanor Crane from the financial records. Very little comes up—almost as if the person doesn't exist. But I did find a disciplinary note in the medical board records about Reid from three years ago, questioning her fitness to practice following 'erratic behavior and concerning ethical lapses in judgment.' There's a mention of 'consulting with E.C.' on particularly concerning cases."

"E.C.—Eleanor Crane?" Mick suggested.

"Possibly. Could be a colleague, maybe even her supervisor at Blackthorn." Reeves frowned at her screen. "The records are incomplete—private facility, limited access. But it's clear Reid's behavior changed dramatically at some point."

Mick considered this new information. "Psychological deterioration following prolonged exposure to extraction procedures—just as Blackwood described. The work was affecting her mentally."

"Or the guilt was," Reeves suggested. "If she found herself torn between scientific ambition and ethical concerns..."

"The psychological toll of that kind of work." Mick stared at Reid's photograph. "It would explain Blackwood's notes about her inconsistent behavior."

"Or something more." Reeves closed her laptop with quiet finality. "Remember what we saw at the Harrington Hotel—the effects of uncontained demonic essence on the building itself. What might prolonged exposure do to a human mind?"

The implication hung in the air between them—that Reid's psychological issues might not be purely psychological at all, but the result of metaphysical contamination. That the woman they sought might be as much victim as perpetrator.

"We need to approach this carefully," Mick said finally. "Reid—or whatever remains of her—could be our best chance at understanding how to break the binding. But she could also be extremely dangerous."

"Agreed." Reeves gathered her coat and keys. "Let's start with the Kensington property, see if we can pick up her trail. But we go in prepared for anything."

As they prepared to leave, Mick took one final look at the evidence wall—the web of connections they'd painstakingly assembled. The Blackthorn Institute's operations were vastly larger and more sophisticated than they'd initially suspected. What had begun as a search for answers about Marchosias's binding had expanded into something that threatened the very fabric between realms.

And at the center of it all, Dr. Eleanor Reid—brilliant researcher, possible whistleblower, potential victim of her own experiments. The woman who might hold the key to everything they sought.

Or the one who could destroy them all.

The Kensington apartment building exuded quiet luxury—the kind of place where residents valued privacy above all else. No doorman, just an elaborate security system and a discreet entrance tucked away from the main street. The type of building where neighbors might live side by side for years without ever learning each other's names.

Reeves flashed her warrant card at the building manager, a thin man with perpetually raised eyebrows who seemed distressed by their very presence in his immaculate lobby.

"Dr. Reid hasn't lived here in years," he informed them with carefully measured disdain. "Keeps the flat but never visits. Rent paid by automatic transfer, never late."

"When was the last time anyone saw her?" Mick asked.

The manager sniffed. "I couldn't say. Perhaps two years? She comes and goes at odd hours when she does visit. Very private person."

"We need to see the apartment," Reeves stated, making it clear this wasn't a request.

The manager hesitated, weighing his options before grudgingly producing a master key card. "Fifth floor, unit 507. I'll accompany you, of course."

"That won't be necessary," Reeves replied with professional firmness. "Police matter."

The flat was pristine—not just clean but untouched, like a museum exhibit of modern living. Everything arranged with mathematical precision: books aligned perfectly on shelves, furniture positioned at precise angles, kitchen implements hung with institutional exactness. No dust, suggesting regular cleaning service, but no signs of actual habitation either.

"It's a shell," Mick observed, running a finger along the spotless kitchen counter. "Maintained for appearances but not actually used."

"Not recently anyway." Reeves opened the refrigerator to find it empty except for bottled water and a jar of multivitamins. "But someone's been here in the last few months. The cleaning supplies under the sink aren't dried out."

They moved methodically through the space, searching for anything that might provide insight into Reid's current whereabouts or mental state. The bookshelves held an impressive collection of neurology texts and research journals, many authored or co-authored by Reid herself. The office contained a desk with an expensive computer setup, powered down and password-protected.

"Professional success was important to her," Mick noted, examining the framed degrees and awards on the office wall. "Harvard Medical School, research fellowships, innovation awards."

"No personal photographs," Reeves observed. "No family pictures, no friends, no mementos."

"Nothing that would give emotional leverage." Mick opened the closet in the master bedroom, finding a row of nearly identical professional outfits—dark suits, crisp blouses, sensible shoes. "It's like she deliberately created a life without personal attachments."

"Or personal vulnerabilities." Reeves knelt beside the bed, checking underneath. "People who work with dangerous information often minimize personal connections—fewer pressure points for enemies to target."

Mick was examining the bathroom when something caught his attention—a slight discoloration on the white tile floor near the bathtub, almost invisible unless viewed from exactly the right angle. Kneeling, he traced his fingers along the seam of the tiles, feeling a subtle depression that shouldn't have been there.

"Found something," he called to Reeves.

Pressing firmly on the tile produced a soft click, and a section of the floor lifted to reveal a hidden compartment. Inside lay a sleek metal case, approximately the size of a small briefcase, secured with both a combination lock and what appeared to be a biometric scanner.

"Sophisticated security for a bathroom hiding spot," Reeves commented, kneeling beside him.

"And recent activity," Mick added, pointing to the slight scuff marks on the tile edge. "This has been opened within the last few weeks."

He carefully removed the case and placed it on the bathroom counter. The biometric scanner made conventional entry impossible, but the combination lock might be vulnerable to his specialized skills.

"You want me to look away while you do something technically illegal?" Reeves asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Depends. Do you want plausible deniability when I find a way into this case without proper authorization?"

Reeves sighed. "Just be quick about it."

Mick extracted a set of specialized tools from his jacket pocket—legacy of years spent breaking into places he shouldn't. With practiced precision, he set to work on the combination lock, listening for the subtle clicks that would reveal its secrets.

After several minutes of intense concentration, the lock yielded with a satisfying snap. Mick paused, hand hovering over the lid.

"If this contains biological samples or anything hazardous—" Reeves began.

"I know," Mick agreed. "Careful approach."

He eased the lid open slowly, prepared to slam it shut at the first sign of anything dangerous. Inside, they found not biological materials but documents—dozens of them, meticulously organized in labeled folders. Each bore the Blackthorn Institute logo, but with additional markings indicating "CONFIDENTIAL" and "DIRECTOR'S EYES ONLY."

"She stole internal documents," Reeves whispered, her voice tinged with both concern and excitement. "Classified research protocols, subject records, facility inventories..."

"Not just stole," Mick corrected, pointing to handwritten notes in the margins of several documents. "Annotated. Analyzed. She was building a case."

He removed the folders carefully, spreading them across the bathroom counter. The contents were damning—detailed accounts of extraction procedures performed on unwitting subjects, records of failed integration attempts resulting in deaths or permanent psychological damage, property acquisition reports that explicitly referenced the creation of a "nationwide containment architecture."

"This is everything we need to shut them down legally," Reeves breathed, paging through a folder labeled "SUBJECT ACQUISITION PROTOCOLS."

"And this is what we need to help Marchosias," Mick added, extracting a thin file marked "BINDING MECHANICS – THEORETICAL LIMITATIONS." Inside were detailed diagrams of the extraction system centered at Cell 7B, including technical specifications for the binding procedures and—most critically—notes on potential vulnerabilities in the system.

"She was documenting everything," Mick realized. "Creating a comprehensive record of Blackthorn's activities while simultaneously identifying weaknesses in their methods."

"But why?" Reeves asked. "If she was planning to expose them or sabotage the project, why not act on this information?"

Mick continued examining the documents, finding the answer in a folder labeled "PERSONAL" tucked at the bottom of the case. Inside was a handwritten journal with two distinct sets of notes - one in a neat, precise hand labeled "VR Notes on Extraction Methodology," and another in a more jagged, intense script labeled "EC Protocols."

"Look at this," Mick said, showing the journal to Reeves. "Two different people documenting the research - Reid and probably this Crane person. But working in the same journal."

"Close collaborators, then," Reeves observed. "Maybe Crane was Reid's research assistant or partner?"

"But they seem to have different priorities," Mick noted, flipping through more pages. "Reid's notes focus on understanding the process, documenting concerns and potential dangers. These 'EC Protocols' are all about accelerating the research, pushing boundaries."

"So Reid was hesitant while Crane wanted to move faster," Reeves summarized. "That matches what Blackwood wrote about the project's competing visions."

Mick continued examining the journal entries. "There's something unusual about how these entries are organized. They never directly reference each other, almost like they weren't aware of what the other had written."

"Compartmentalized research, maybe?" Reeves suggested. "Or they were working in shifts and leaving notes for each other."

"Possibly," Mick said, though something about the pattern nagged at him. "Either way, it seems there was serious disagreement about the project's direction. Reid apparently had ethical concerns while Crane was focused purely on results."

"A potential ally and our most dangerous enemy, sharing the same body." Reeves shook her head at the complexity of their situation. "How do we even approach that?"

Mick was about to respond when his attention was caught by a small leather-bound notebook partially visible beneath the other documents. It was older than the rest, its cover worn with handling. Opening it revealed pages of diagrams unlike anything else in the case—symbols and sigils arranged in complex patterns that he immediately recognized from Blackwood's journals.

"This is it," he breathed, carefully examining each page. "Counter-binding protocols. Methods for disrupting the extraction system without causing catastrophic release."

In the margins were notes in precise handwriting: "Emergency failsafe. Use only as last resort. Cell 7B central to entire network—disruption here will affect all connected sites."

"Someone created an off-switch," Reeves realized, looking over his shoulder. "A way to shut down the entire operation if necessary."

"Not just shut it down—reverse it. Return extracted essence to its sources." Mick pointed to a complex diagram labeled "RESTORATION CONFIGURATION."

"This is what we need to help Marchosias," he continued, his voice tight with controlled excitement. "With these counter-binding protocols, we can break whatever's holding him in the Labyrinth state."

"And potentially release everything else they've extracted," Reeves cautioned. "This notebook mentions substantial risks—reality distortions, possible breaches between realms."

"One problem at a time," Mick replied, carefully returning the documents to the case. "First we need to find Reid and figure out who this Eleanor Crane is, and what role each of them plays in all this."

"We'll need to be careful," Reeves added. "If they're working at cross purposes, we could be walking into a complex situation."

Mick looked down at the metal case containing their best hope for saving Marchosias—and possibly their worst nightmare if misused.

"One thing's clear - at least one of them seems to have created a contingency plan. That might be our best ally in all this."

As they secured the case and prepared to leave, a notification pinged on Reeves's phone. She checked it, her expression shifting from professional focus to concerned surprise.

"What is it?" Mick asked.

"Alert from my office search parameters." Reeves held up her phone, displaying a security notification. "Access credentials for Dr. Victoria Reid were just used to enter St. Catherine's Hospital facility. Timestamp—seven minutes ago."

Their eyes met in silent understanding. The convergence of their investigation and Reid's movements couldn't be coincidence. Either she knew they were coming, or something significant was happening at the facility.

Either way, they had their next destination.

"St. Catherine's," Mick said, hefting the metal case. "We find Reid, figure out what she knows about these counter-binding protocols, and determine our approach from there."

"And if she's working against us?" Reeves asked as they made their way out of the apartment.

"Then we use what we've found here." Mick patted the case containing the counter-binding documentation. "One way or another, we're ending this—and bringing Marchosias home."

As they left the building, neither noticed the security camera above the entrance rotating to follow their movement, its feed transmitting to somewhere far beyond the apartment building's modest security office. Nor did they see the black sedan that pulled away from the curb half a block behind them, following at a discreet distance as they drove toward St. Catherine's Hospital and whatever awaited them there.