Dr. Sato's promise arrived the next morning in the form of a white plastic badge with a blue stripe—the same stripe worn by the maintenance staff. A guard delivered it without comment, sliding it under the glass door along with a printed schedule that listed "Sanitation Round: Corridor 4" from 9:00 to 10:00 AM. So-hee pinned the badge to her jumpsuit and studied the schedule. Corridor 4 was the administrative wing, where the medical records office was located. She understood the subtext: Dr. Sato wanted her to look, to memorize, to report.
She also noticed that the countdown clock on her wall had been reset. Instead of 4 days, 18 hours, it now read 6 days, 02 hours. A delay. She wondered if the "implantation team" had been postponed, or if Dr. Sato had intervened to buy her time. Either way, the extra forty-eight hours felt like a stolen breath.
At 8:30 AM, she was given a new jumpsuit—clean, with reinforced seams and a pocket on the thigh. Inside the pocket was a folded note in Dr. Sato's precise handwriting: "Check the yellow folder in Cabinet 3. Look for the drug lot numbers. Report back by noon."
So-hee slipped the note into her waistband and headed toward Corridor 4. The badge worked; the security scanner beeped green, and the door slid open. She stepped into a world of beige carpets and fluorescent ceiling panels—a corporate office transplanted onto a secret island. Desks with monitor screens, filing cabinets, a water cooler. Two administrative assistants—both young Korean women in neat blouses—looked up from their keyboards and offered her polite, vacant smiles. They did not ask why a maintenance worker was in their wing. The badge was enough.
Cabinet 3 was against the back wall, unlocked. Inside, rows of yellow folders lined the shelf, each labeled with a date and a code: "Cycle 2025-04," "Cycle 2025-07," "Cycle 2026-01." So-hee pulled out the most recent folder, dated three weeks ago. It contained printed spreadsheets with columns of drug names—Menopur, Gonal-F, Cetrotide—and handwritten notes in the margins. She flipped through the pages, her eyes scanning for anything unusual.
Then she found it. On page 14, a line item caught her attention: "Compound X-7. Dosage: 0.5ml daily. Purpose: endometrial enhancement. Side effects: tachycardia, hypertension, transient psychosis. Subject responses: 4 positive, 2 negative." The word "psychosis" was underlined twice. Below it, in a different pen, someone had written: "Unapproved. Withdrawn from clinical trials in 2023. Do not use."
So-hee's hands trembled. X-7 was not a standard fertility drug. It was an experimental compound, one that had been rejected by the Japanese Ministry of Health for "unacceptable neuropsychiatric risks." Yet here it was, being injected into the women of the Gestation Wing, presumably to make the uterine lining more receptive to implantation—at the cost of their sanity.
She tore out page 14 and folded it into her pocket, then replaced the folder and closed the cabinet. As she turned to leave, she nearly collided with one of the administrative assistants, a petite woman with glasses and a name tag reading "Ms. Yoo."
"Oh, sorry!" Ms. Yoo stepped back, her eyes darting to the cabinet. "Are you looking for supplies? I can help—"
"I'm just checking the cleaning log," So-hee said, her voice steady. "The floor in this section needs mopping."
Ms. Yoo nodded, but her gaze lingered on So-hee's badge. "You're new. I haven't seen you before."
"Transferred from the Follicle Wing this morning," So-hee said, offering a rehearsed smile. "They needed extra hands for the admin corridors."
Ms. Yoo seemed to accept this. She returned to her desk, but So-hee noticed her fingers hovering over the keyboard, as if she were about to type a message. Alarm bells rang in So-hee's head. She needed to leave before Ms. Yoo could report her presence to anyone.
She walked briskly back to the security door, swiped her badge, and stepped into the main corridor. Her heart was pounding. She had the page—the proof that Ginga Kyosei was using a banned drug. But she had no way to transmit it, no secure contact outside of Dr. Sato, whose motivations remained opaque.
At 10:15 AM, she ducked into a supply closet and read Dr. Sato's note again. He wanted her to report back by noon, but she had no telephone, no intercom, no way to reach him without drawing attention. She decided to wait for the scheduled "medical check" that was listed on her new schedule—at 11:30, she was due in Examination Room 2 for a blood draw. That was where she would find him.
The blood draw was routine. A phlebotomist—a bored young man with a nose ring—took three vials from her arm and labeled them. He did not speak. But as he turned away, Dr. Sato entered the room, his white coat crisp, his expression professionally neutral.
"Leave us," he said to the phlebotomist. "I need to review her hormone panel privately."
The phlebotomist exited. Dr. Sato closed the door and turned to So-hee. "Report."
She pulled out the folded page and handed it to him. He scanned it, his eyes narrowing. "X-7. I suspected they were still using it. The corporation bought the patent from a defunct biotech firm in 2024. They claimed they would only use it for animal trials. But the profit margin on 'enhanced implantation success rates' is too high to resist." He folded the page and placed it in his own pocket. "Good work. But we need more. I need to know how many hosts have received X-7 and whether any have been removed to the basement as a result."
So-hee felt a chill. "You're asking me to go to the basement?"
"I'm asking you to look at the transfer records. They're in the secure server room, adjacent to the main office. The password is 'Fertility2023'—it hasn't changed in two years." He paused. "I would go myself, but I have been flagged for 'excessive curiosity.' If I am seen near the server room again, they will revoke my access entirely."
So-hee considered this. The basement was the place where women disappeared. She had never been there, but she had heard enough from Mayumi—the cold, the silence, the occasional muffled scream. The idea of venturing near that entrance made her stomach turn. But she also knew that X-7 was a weapon, and that every host who had been injected with it was a victim whose story needed to be told.
"I'll do it," she said. "But I need something in return. A way to contact the outside world. A phone, a radio, anything. I can't keep playing courier without a goal."
Dr. Sato studied her for a long moment. "There is a satellite phone in the administrator's office on the second floor. It is locked in a safe, and the code is known only to the facility director. But I can give you the director's schedule—he leaves his office every day at 2:00 PM for a 'nap break' that lasts thirty minutes. If you can get into his office during that window, you might be able to use the phone. But it is risky. He has motion sensors."
So-hee nodded. "Give me the schedule. I'll find a way."
He wrote the details on a scrap of paper and pressed it into her palm. "Be careful. The director is not a fool. He has already fired three nurses for 'security breaches.' If you are caught, I cannot protect you."
She pocketed the paper and left the examination room, her mind racing. The satellite phone was her best chance—a direct line to the mainland, to a lawyer, to a journalist, to anyone who could expose the island. But she had to get past the motion sensors and the locked safe. She had no lock-picking skills, no hacking tools, only her wits and the maintenance badge.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of cleaning tasks—mopping floors, emptying trash, wiping down counters. She performed them mechanically, her thoughts fixed on the basement transfer records. At noon, during the lunch break, she managed to slip away to the main office wing. The server room was at the end of a narrow hallway, its door protected by a keypad. She typed "Fertility2023" and held her breath. The light turned green.
The server room was small, windowless, and humming with the drone of cooling fans. A single workstation sat against the wall, its monitor displaying a login screen. So-hee sat down and searched the file directories. She found a folder labeled "Transfer Logs" and opened it. A spreadsheet appeared, listing the names and host numbers of every woman who had been moved out of the Gestation Wing in the past eighteen months.
She scrolled down. Forty-seven names. Forty-seven women who had been "decommissioned"—some to the basement, some to mainland hospitals, some to "off-site rehabilitation." The columns included dates, reasons for transfer, and final dispositions. Next to each name was a checkbox indicating whether the woman had received X-7. She counted twenty-three checks. Twenty-three women had been injected with the experimental drug. Of those, nineteen had been transferred to the basement. Only four had been sent to hospitals.
So-hee printed the spreadsheet—two pages of damning data—and folded it into her pocket. She logged out and left the server room, her steps steady despite the trembling in her legs. She had just gathered evidence of a systematic cover-up. Now she needed to get it off the island.
At 1:45 PM, she positioned herself near the facility director's office. The director was a portly Japanese man in his sixties, named Mr. Okada, who wore a gold watch and smelled of expensive cologne. She had glimpsed him earlier, striding through the corridors with an air of authority. At 2:00 PM sharp, he emerged from his office, locked the door, and walked toward the elevator. So-hee waited until the elevator doors closed, then approached the office.
The motion sensors were subtle—small white disks on the ceiling. She remembered Dr. Sato's warning: they were designed to detect body heat and trigger an alarm if anyone lingered too long. She had less than thirty minutes. She needed to move fast, but also stay low, minimize her thermal signature.
She slid her badge through the door's card reader—luckily, her maintenance clearance included this floor—and stepped inside. The office was neat, organized, with a large mahogany desk, a leather chair, and a wall of filing cabinets. The safe was behind a framed painting of Mount Fuji. She moved the painting aside and examined the safe—a standard electronic model with a keypad and a handle. She had no code, but she remembered Dr. Sato mentioning that Mr. Okada had a habit of using his wife's birthday. She tried four digits: 0312. The safe did not open.
She tried 1962—his birth year, according to his personnel file. No.
She tried the facility's founding year: 2021. No.
Sweat beaded on her forehead. She had only fifteen minutes left. She tried the last combination she could think of—the date of the island's first successful birth, which was listed on a plaque in the lobby: October 17, 2022. 1017. The safe clicked open.
Inside, a satellite phone sat on a shelf, next to a stack of cash and a handgun. So-hee grabbed the phone and powered it on. The signal was strong—three bars, connected to a satellite network. She dialed the only number she remembered by heart: her mother's cell phone. It rang once, twice, three times—
"Hello?" Her mother's voice, frail and hoarse, crackled through the speaker.
So-hee's throat constricted. "Mom, it's me. I don't have much time. I need you to listen. I'm not in Jeju. I'm on an island—"
"Who is this?" Her mother's voice was confused, distant. "So-hee? Is that you?"
"Yes, it's me. Write this down. I need you to call the Korean Human Rights Commission. Tell them there's an island in the East Sea, near Tsushima, where women are being held as surrogates against their will. Tell them—"
The line went dead. So-hee looked at the phone. The signal had dropped. She tried to redial, but the screen flashed "Network Error." She realized that the satellite connection was being jammed—someone on the island had detected the outgoing call and cut the link.
She shoved the phone back into the safe and closed it, just as she heard footsteps in the hallway. She swung the painting back into place and ducked behind the desk, her heart pounding. The footsteps paused outside the door. A key turned in the lock. Mr. Okada was back early.
So-hee had no exit. The office had no windows, no second door. She was trapped. She scanned the room for a hiding spot—under the desk, behind the curtains, inside the closet. She dove into the closet, a narrow space filled with suits and umbrellas, and pulled the door shut, leaving a crack to see through.
Mr. Okada entered, his footsteps heavy. He walked to his desk, sat down, and began typing on his computer. So-hee held her breath, trying not to make a sound. She could see his back, his broad shoulders, the gold watch glinting on his wrist. He reached for a folder on his desk—the same yellow folder she had seen in Cabinet 3—and flipped through it.
Then he picked up his office phone and dialed a number. He spoke in Japanese, his voice low and calm. So-hee caught fragments: "...yes, the X-7 lot... three more subjects... prepare the basement for intake... no, do not inform Dr. Sato. He is not to be trusted."
So-hee's blood ran cold. Mr. Okada knew about Dr. Sato's activities. He was already planning to move more hosts to the basement, and he was excluding the doctor from the process. That meant Dr. Sato's cover was about to be blown—and so was hers.
Mr. Okada hung up and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He seemed to be thinking, calculating. Then he stood up, walked to the painting, and moved it aside. He opened the safe, extracted the satellite phone, and examined it. So-hee watched in horror as he pressed a button and scrolled through the call history. His face darkened. He turned toward the closet, his eyes narrowing.
She had forgotten to delete the call log. He knew someone had used his phone.
Mr. Okada approached the closet, his footsteps deliberate, unhurried. He reached for the handle. So-hee pressed herself against the back wall, her eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the door to swing open and reveal her.
But instead of opening the closet, Mr. Okada stopped. He pulled out his own cell phone and typed a message. A moment later, his phone pinged with a reply. He read it, nodded, and turned away from the closet. He walked back to his desk, put the satellite phone back in the safe, locked it, and left the office.
So-hee waited a full minute before she dared to breathe. She had survived—but only barely. Mr. Okada had not found her, but he knew someone had accessed his phone. He would be watching. He would tighten security. The next time she tried anything, she would be caught.
She slipped out of the office, her legs shaking, and returned to the main corridor. She had the spreadsheet in her pocket—the transfer records, the X-7 data, the evidence of criminal negligence. But she had lost the element of surprise. The enemy knew a mole was among them.
As she walked back to her cubicle, she passed by the Gestation Wing. Through the glass, she saw a young woman—perhaps twenty-four, with a round face and braided hair—lying on a cot, her belly heavily distended. Her eyes were open but glassy, and she was mumbling in a low, rhythmic chant. So-hee recognized the words: "Don't take my baby. Don't take my baby. Don't take my baby."
The woman was in the grip of X-7 psychosis. She was reliving a nightmare, one that would only end when her child was ripped from her arms and sold to strangers. So-hee pressed her hand against the glass, willing the woman to see her, to know she was not alone.
The woman did not see her. She kept chanting, her voice growing softer until it was barely a whisper. So-hee turned away, tears blurring her vision. She had to act fast—for this woman, for C-9, for Eun-ha, for Mayumi, for all of them.
That night, she met Mayumi in the corridor during the dimming cycle. She told her everything—the spreadsheet, the satellite phone, Mr. Okada's discovery, the X-7 psychosis. Mayumi listened in silence, her face a mask of controlled fury.
"He knows," Mayumi said finally. "He knows about Dr. Sato, and he knows about the phone. But he doesn't know who the mole is. That gives us time—but not much. We need to get that spreadsheet to Park Jae-ho. Tonight."
"Tonight? How?"
Mayumi reached into her pocket and pulled out a small plastic pouch—the kind used for storing contact lenses. Inside was a folded piece of paper. She unfolded it to reveal a hand-drawn map of the island's shoreline, with a tiny X marked at a cove near the incinerator.
"There is a fishing boat that passes this cove every night at 1:00 AM," Mayumi said. "It is operated by a man who owes a debt to Park Jae-ho. He will take the evidence if we can deliver it to him. But we have to throw it into the water at exactly 12:45, with a flashing light—a signal. Do you have a flashlight?"
So-hee shook her head. "No. But I have the aluminum foil. And I have a mirror—the one from the chocolate wrapper. If I flash it toward the cove, he might see it."
Mayumi nodded. "It's a risk. But it's better than waiting for Okada to find us." She pressed the pouch into So-hee's hand. "Take it. I cannot go—I am being monitored after the last drill. But you have the badge. You can move at night. If anyone asks, you are cleaning the incinerator."
So-hee accepted the pouch. Inside was the folded spreadsheet, along with a small USB drive—no doubt containing additional data. She tucked it into her waistband and waited for the lights to dim to their lowest cycle.
At 12:30 AM, she slipped out of her cubicle and moved through the darkened corridors. The incinerator access tunnel was the same one she had traversed two nights ago, but this time she knew the route. She reached the rocky shore at 12:40, the cold sea wind biting her face. She found the cove and squatted behind a boulder, scanning the water for the boat.
She waited. 12:45 came and went. No boat. 12:50. Still nothing. She began to worry that the fishing boat had been intercepted, or that the contact had been arrested. She was about to retreat when she saw a faint white light in the distance—a vessel, approaching slowly, its engine barely audible.
So-hee pulled out the aluminum foil and the mirror, and flashed a signal toward the boat—three short, two long, three short. The boat changed course, heading toward the cove. When it was within fifty meters, a figure emerged on the deck, a man in a dark coat. He raised his arm in acknowledgment.
So-hee took the pouch and wrapped it in a waterproof plastic bag she had stolen from the supply closet. She tied it to a small rock and hurled it as far as she could into the water. The splash was swallowed by the waves. The boat moved closer, and a net scooped up the package. The figure on the deck waved once, then disappeared back into the cabin. The boat turned and sailed away into the darkness.
So-hee exhaled. She had done it. The evidence was on its way to Park Jae-ho. For the first time in days, she felt a sliver of hope.
She began to make her way back to the tunnel, but as she turned, she saw a figure standing at the shore's edge, barely ten meters away. It was a woman—tall, slim, with short-cropped hair and a severe expression. She wore a black uniform with no insignia, and she held a baton in her right hand.
"B-7," the woman said, her voice cold. "I have been watching you for some time. You are resourceful. That is admirable. But you are also a liability."
So-hee froze. She recognized the voice—it was the shaven-headed attendant who had taken the original note. The woman stepped closer, her baton raised.
"You just sent a package off the island," the attendant said. "I saw it. I have a radio. I can call security and have you thrown into the basement within ten seconds."
So-hee's heart plummeted. But then the attendant continued: "Or I can let you go. Under one condition. You give me access to the medical records. I need to know what they did to my sister."
So-hee stared at her. "Your sister?"
The attendant's mask cracked. For a moment, she looked less like a guard and more like a grieving woman. "Her name was Choi Young-ji. Host C-12. They sent her to the basement last year. They said she died of sepsis. But I don't believe them. I want proof. If you can get me that proof, I will protect you. I will even help you escape."
So-hee weighed the offer. She had lost the spreadsheet and the USB drive—they were now on their way to Park Jae-ho. But she still had the printed page about X-7. And she had access to the server room, where the digital records were stored. She could find Choi Young-ji's file.
"Deal," she said. "I'll get you the proof. But you have to tell me everything you know about this island—the layout, the security rotations, the escape routes."
The attendant—her name, So-hee learned, was Kang Soo-ah—nodded once. "I'll give you what I know. But we have to be careful. There are more watchers than you think."
She led So-hee back into the tunnel, her footsteps silent. As they parted ways near the cubicle wing, Soo-ah whispered: "Meet me tomorrow at 3:00 AM, same place. I'll have maps. You'll have records."
So-hee returned to her cubicle, exhausted but alive. She lay on the cot and stared at the ceiling, her mind a whirlwind of new alliances and fresh dangers. She had sent evidence to the outside, gained an ally in the security staff, and confirmed that X-7 was being used systematically. But she had also revealed herself to a third party—one who had seen her throw the package.
She did not know if Kang Soo-ah could be trusted. She did not know if the fishing boat had actually received the package. She did not know if Dr. Sato was still free. But she knew one thing for certain: the island was no longer a place of silent submission. It was a battlefield, and she was no longer just a host. She was a soldier.
The countdown clock on her wall now read: 5 days, 07 hours, 33 minutes. She had five days to find the proof for Kang Soo-ah, stay ahead of Mr. Okada, and survive whatever came next.
She closed her eyes, but sleep did not come. Instead, she heard the distant hum of a generator, and beneath it, a faint, rhythmic sound—like a heartbeat, or a drum, or the echo of a thousand footsteps marching toward a cliff. She listened, and she waited, and she planned.
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