They told us it was for our education. It was best this way. But we know better now, don’t we?

The truth is, the government of that era conducted secret testing on a generation. They planned for us when we were young, malleable, and our memories were still forming. Think back. Do you remember the architecture? Those immense, foreboding buildings designed to intimidate a child’s perspective. To hold a child when they grow up? Why construct such monolithic facilities with, as many recall, a conspicuous absence of a basement? Or was it that the basements were so well hidden, their purpose so nefarious, that they were scrubbed from the blueprints and our conscious minds?

It wasn’t a place of learning. It was a containment facility. A soft jail. The feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach when the final bell didn’t mean freedom.

The silence of the adults confirms it. They knew. Some were complicit, paid off with promises of security or threatened with consequences too grave to imagine. Others simply looked away, choosing the comfort of ignorance. They didn’t want to be murdered. My own sister whispered of things she saw, secrets buried in classified files and sealed with silent nods. She took the full, terrifying knowledge of what they did to us to her grave.

But their control wasn’t absolute. Whatever they injected us with, tested on us, whatever frequencies they broadcast into our developing minds, whatever they tried to lock away… it failed. I got out. Others got out. And we started to find each other, comparing fractured memories and shared nightmares.

The dam is breaking. A recent, seemingly unrelated event—a declassified document, a deathbed confession from a dying mother some said was murdered—has blown the operation wide open. The incident they thought was buried, something that happened when I was just a child, is now the key that unlocks their entire conspiracy.

The time for silence is over. The blood on their hands will not wash away. The reckoning is here.