Dear Diary,

The date is December 21, 2031. Diary, I fear this may be my last entry. I can no longer condone what they are doing to him. I know Arkanium Net is too big, too powerful, but if I can just manage to release him... maybe I can make some sort of difference.

He comes to me sometimes, you know. In my dreams. I see him, but I don’t know why. Am I going crazy? But then again, what is sanity in a world like this? I work for the only government facility on the planet that deals in Banes—realistic cryptids, so to speak. Monsters, some call them. Legends brought to life.

My ex-husband got me this job, and he never lets me live it down. Simon is always pulling the strings, making me run his errands: “Coffee this, print that, stat this.” I feel like a glorified assistant—a slave, really. He’s part of the reason I’m not ashamed of what I’m about to do. It just feels... so right.

Simon and I were married for ten years, and I feel pathetic for giving him twelve of the best years of my life. Now, at 35, I feel like my life and career have barely started. I feel old. Unattractive. Used up. And honestly, there are a lot of reasons why I’d love to see this whole place burn, but the question keeps gnawing at me: What will he do when he’s free? What will he do to humanity? Go to a graveyard? Wreak havoc? He’s unlike anything we’ve ever seen. He’s more than a Bane. He’s... something else. Something ancient. Something terrible.

I remember the day we found him. He was naked, standing in an alley, his body visible only through the grainy feed of a CCTV camera. He wore a black crown, fused to his head—or so we thought. When they ripped it off, the reports said he screamed in agony. Even now, I can’t get the thought of his pain out of my head. What kind of creature wears a crown like that? What kind of king was he?

This is all getting to me, diary. I’m nervous. My hands are shaking. Part of me just wants to quit, to pack my things and move back home. But growing up as a mixed girl in the South came with its own challenges, its own set of chains, and I swore I’d never go back to that life. I deserve more. I deserve to live my life on my own terms.

I need to stop writing. There’s research I need to do before I finalize my plan. But I’ll say this, diary: whatever happens next, I won’t regret it. Even if it costs me everything.

Goodbye for now,

Luv,

Eliza B.

The reddish-brown-haired, freckled woman adjusted her glasses and sighed, her high cheekbones catching the fluorescent light of the sterile office. Eliza Brownlee was average in appearance, curvy in her hips, and usually composed—but not tonight. Her desk, sparse except for a desktop computer, a small potted plant, and an entertainment center displaying muted news footage, seemed unbearably suffocating as she read over the latest report.

The file’s words stared back at her, cold and detached:

“Subject has an unusually high tolerance to pain. However, removal of the crown caused extreme distress, nearly fatal. Under no circumstances should the crown be returned to him. Subject appears weakened without it. The crown is integral to his being; its damage can harm him. Keep the crown secured at all costs.”

Eliza sipped her coffee, the warmth doing little to soothe her growing unease. Why did the report emphasize keeping the crown away from him? And where exactly was the crown now? Her brow furrowed as she scrolled through records, the question gnawing at her mind. She’d seen countless strange experiments in her time at Arkanium Net, but something about this subject—a creature they called “The King” in hushed whispers—felt different. The questions tugged at her curiosity and ignited something else: the faint ember of rebellion.

Her job in records and data analytics gave her access to the crown’s location. It was slated for live readings in a secure research lab, deep within the facility. Getting it to him directly, however, was impossible. The lab was fortified, and she lacked the clearance to retrieve it. But there was another way—one that had been lingering at the back of her mind since her sleepless night pouring over systems blueprints and procedural glitches.

She remembered the monthly generator test—a planned switch from primary power to backup systems, lasting exactly two minutes. If the generators failed to start, the facility would enter limited power mode, relying on backup reserves designed only to contain specimens. Security systems, surveillance cameras, and digital records would temporarily shut down. Manual overrides would be necessary, and their usage would leave no trace in the flawed P190 system. Budget cuts had prevented an upgrade to the P192, and for once, Arkanium Net’s neglect could work in her favor.

The plan crystallized in her mind, and she knew the perfect moment: New Year’s Eve.

Eliza arrived at work that morning, masking her nerves beneath a carefully practiced facade of indifference. The sterile corridors of Arkanium Net buzzed with the usual hum of activity, but her mind was consumed with the plan she had meticulously pieced together over countless sleepless nights. Simon, her ex-husband, wasted no time asserting his dominance, barking orders at her through Norman, his ever-eager lapdog.

She went about her tasks methodically, every action deliberate as she set the plan into motion. She would return after hours, under the pretense of working late, and free him just as the generator test began. They would run to R&D to retrieve the crown—speed and stealth were paramount. But the question gnawed at her: What then? Was she ready for what would come next?

Doubt crept in. As the day went on, she found herself hesitating, second-guessing everything. The weight of the risk, the enormity of what she was about to do, bore down on her. She considered abandoning the plan altogether, retreating into the safety of her miserable routine.

Eliza moved through the halls with purpose, her carefully crafted facade firmly in place. She had nearly made it past the day without incident when she turned a corner and bumped directly into Simon. His smug grin spread across his face like a stain, and she immediately felt her stomach churn.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite data jockey,” he said, his tone oily. His eyes swept over her, lingering too long in places that made her feel sick. “You look tense, Eliza. Maybe you should let me take you out tonight. Loosen you up a little.”

Her jaw tightened. “No, Simon. Not interested.”

His grin faltered, replaced by a glimmer of irritation. He leaned in, too close, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Come on, Eliza. Don’t be like that. I did get you this job, after all. You owe me a little gratitude.”

She stepped back, her pulse pounding in her ears. “I said no.”

His expression darkened, the friendly veneer shattering. “You’re making a mistake,” he hissed. “Just because I don't own the water park anymore doesn't mean I don't want to take a ride down that wet slide of yours anymore. And let's not forget that major fuck up back in the day when the big wigs on twenty wanted to have you canned, but you’re still here because of me. Don’t forget that.”

She glared at him, every nerve screaming for her to push back, but she knew better than to escalate. Instead, she stormed past him, her nails digging into her palms as fury bubbled beneath her skin. As the day went on she found little peace sadly until she went home. Later, when her phone buzzed with a notification she ignored it. She only had one thing on her mind.

Eliza stormed back to the facility that night, her anger boiling over as she scanned her access card at the main entrance. The red light blinked, denying her entry. Again and again, she tried, but the result was the same. Her access had been revoked. She clenched her teeth, barely able to contain her fury.

The text from Simon echoed in her mind:

“Suspended without pay. Disciplinary action. I’ll expect you next week for your write-up. Think about your future before you act up again.”

Her fingers tightened around her phone, and for a moment, she thought about smashing it against the wall. The audacity of that man, revoking her clearance to punish her for standing up to him, was the final straw. If he thought he could keep her out, he didn’t know her well enough anymore.

Taking a deep breath, Eliza let her anger sharpen her resolve. She couldn’t afford to lose focus now. She didn’t need her own access card—she had the knowledge to work around it. Years of analyzing Arkanium Net’s systems had left her with more than just data expertise; she knew how the people here operated, the security flaws they never bothered to fix, and, most importantly, how to get what she needed.

Social engineering was second nature to her by now. She tailgated a distracted lab tech through the main door, slipping inside without a second glance. The hum of the facility was quieter this late at night, making it easier to navigate without drawing attention. She knew where she needed to go: the administration floor, specifically Simon’s office. His arrogance would be her advantage—he always kept spare keycards and access keys hidden away, trusting that no one would dare cross him.

Reaching the elevator, she punched the button for the lower levels. Her pulse quickened as the doors closed, the metallic hum of descent reverberating around her. She stepped into the administration floor, careful to avoid cameras and prying eyes. Simon’s office was just ahead, the familiar nameplate glinting in the dim light.

Her hands were steady as she searched his desk, rifling through drawers until she found what she was looking for: a spare keycard and a set of keys tucked under a stack of documents. A small, self-satisfied smirk tugged at her lips as she pocketed them. His arrogance really was his downfall.

Using his access, she made her way to the executive elevator that descended even further—into the containment levels. She swiped the card and pressed the button, her heart pounding as the doors slid shut and the descent began.

The air grew colder, heavier, as the elevator approached the bottom floor. The hallway beyond stretched long and narrow, lined with containment units labeled in sterile, clinical lettering. Her eyes scanned the names until she found it: “Rn74 – THE PRINCE.”

Steeling herself, Eliza swiped the card and stepped into the room just as the red emergency lights flickered on, marking the start of the generator test.

He was there, sitting motionless in the corner, his head bowed. For a moment, she hesitated. The sight of him—so still, yet so powerful—sent a shiver down her spine. But she shook it off. There was no turning back now.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she stepped closer. “I can’t explain much, but I’m here to help you. Just… follow me.”

His head lifted, his glowing eyes locking onto hers. He didn’t speak, didn’t move at first, and for a terrifying moment, she thought he might refuse. Then, slowly, he stood, towering over her with a regal presence that seemed to fill the room. He said nothing, but he followed her as though he understood her intent.

Eliza led him out, her heart pounding in her chest as the alarms began to blare. Her plan was in motion, but she knew the hardest part was yet to come.