Echoes of Ashwood

Elena's POV

The email arrived at 3:47 AM, three months after my twin brother stopped existing.

I was still awake because I was always awake now. Sleep meant dreams where Ethan was alive, and waking up meant remembering he wasn't. So I sat at my laptop in my tiny Cambridge apartment, scrolling through his old social media posts like a crazy person, looking for clues everyone else said didn't exist.

Then my phone buzzed. Unknown sender. Subject line: "EYES ONLY - E.H."

My hands shook so hard I almost dropped it.

E.H. Ethan Hartley. Our father used to joke that we were the "E.H. twins"—Elena and Ethan Hartley, born four minutes apart, impossible to tell apart as kids until I grew my hair long. We'd spoken in our own twin language until we were six. We'd never gone more than two days without talking.

Until three months ago when he vanished from Ashwood Institute like smoke.

I clicked the email with trembling fingers.

The message was gibberish. Random letters and numbers that looked like someone had smashed their keyboard. But I recognized it immediately—the substitution cipher Ethan and I created when we were twelve, paranoid that Mom was reading our diaries. We'd used it for years, trading secret messages about crushes and fears and dreams.

Nobody else alive knew this code. Nobody.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I grabbed paper and started translating. A for M, B for Q, the pattern we'd memorized so deeply it was like breathing. Letter by letter, Ethan's final message appeared:

Elena—if you're reading this, I'm already dead or worse. The Institute isn't what it seems. They're killing students. The Bloodline Preservation Initiative. Professor Ashford runs it. They discovered I'm investigating. Trust no one. DV knows everything—he's the only one who might help you. Don't let them—

The message cut off mid-sentence like someone had ripped the phone from his hands.

I read it seven times. Then fourteen. Then I lost count.

My brother was dead. Actually dead. Not missing. Not transferred like the Institute claimed. Not "taking personal time" like the police suggested when they stopped looking after two weeks.

Dead.

The word tasted like poison.

I should call someone. Mom was in London, Dad in New York—they'd been divorced since we were ten, which meant Ethan and I had spent our whole lives being shuffled between countries, between parents who loved us but couldn't stand each other. They'd believed the Institute's lies because the alternative was too horrible.

I should tell the police. Show them this message. Let real investigators handle it.

But Ethan said trust no one. And his message was three months old—if someone killed him for investigating, they'd been covering it up perfectly all this time. What would stop them from making me disappear too?

My phone buzzed again. Another email. Same unknown sender.

I opened it with numb fingers.

Inside was a single file: TWIN_PROTOCOL.pdf

I clicked it. It was a scientific document about something called "Scent Matching in Identical Twins." Technical language filled the pages, but I understood enough. In this world where people could smell what you were—Alpha, Beta, Omega—identical twins sometimes shared the exact same scent. Rare but possible. The document had a photo paperclipped to the first page.

Me and Ethan at age sixteen, at our birthday party. Someone had circled us both and written in red pen: "MATCHED PAIR. OAK AND RAIN. IDENTICAL MARKERS."

My blood turned to ice.

Ethan had sent me proof that we smelled the same. Which meant—

I could pretend to be him.

The thought was insane. Completely insane. I was an Omega—weak, submissive, everything the Alpha-only Institute despised. Ethan was an Alpha—strong, confident, everything they celebrated. We looked identical, but we were nothing alike.

Except we smelled the same. And scent was identity in this world. Scent was everything.

My laptop screen blurred as tears finally came. Three months of holding it together, of being strong for Mom, of lying to Dad that I was fine, of pretending I believed Ethan chose to leave me without saying goodbye.

All lies. He'd died trying to expose something evil. And his last act had been sending me the tools to finish what he started.

I looked at the email again. DV knows everything—he's the only one who might help you.

DV. I opened Ethan's Instagram, scrolling through his posts from Ashwood. There—a photo from eight months ago. Ethan grinning at a formal dinner, arm slung around another student's shoulders. The caption read: "Suffering through another boring Institute dinner with the only real one here. #DVforthewin #actuallynotaterriblehuman"

The other guy wasn't smiling. He stood stiff in an expensive suit, dark hair perfectly styled, storm-gray eyes staring at the camera like he could see through it. Handsome in a cold, dangerous way that made my stomach flip.

Someone had tagged him: @DominicBlackwell

Dominic. DV. The only person Ethan trusted at that school.

I clicked on his profile. Private. Only three public photos—all from Institute events, all showing the same controlled, expressionless face. His bio said: "Blackwell Dynasty heir. Fourth year. Ashwood Institute."

This was the person who might help me. Or might be the one who killed my brother.

I pulled up Ethan's university account, my heart pounding. His password was easy—he always used variations of our childhood dog's name. I was in within seconds, staring at his student portal.

Status: WITHDRAWN - MEDICAL LEAVE

They'd erased him. Made it look like he chose to leave. I could fix that. I could forge documents saying he was coming back. The administration would have to let "him" in because refusing would mean admitting something was wrong.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. If I did this, there was no going back. If they killed Ethan for investigating, they wouldn't hesitate to kill me too. I was an Omega pretending to be an Alpha, walking into a school that murdered students who discovered their secrets.

I thought about Ethan's laugh. The way he'd always protected me, even when we were kids and bigger students bullied me for being Omega. How he'd taught me to throw a punch and told me I was just as strong as any Alpha, designation be damned. How he'd called me two days before he vanished, voice excited: "Elena, I found something huge. I can't talk about it on the phone, but when I expose this, everything changes. I'm going to make them pay for what they've done."

I'd told him to be careful. He'd laughed and said, "Always am, little sister."

I was older by four minutes. It was our oldest argument.

Now it would never be resolved.

I opened a new document and started typing the medical deferral form. My hands didn't shake anymore. They were steady. Determined.

Ethan had died trying to save people. I was going to finish his mission.

And if Dominic Blackwell had anything to do with my brother's death, I'd make sure he paid for it.

I hit submit on the forged documents at 4:23 AM. The system accepted them immediately. Congratulations, Ethan Hartley. You're returning to Ashwood Institute next week.

My phone buzzed one final time. Another email from the unknown sender.

Just two words:

Burn everything.

I looked down at the printed message, the twin document, all the evidence Ethan had risked his life to send me. Someone was watching. Someone knew I'd received his final message.

And they wanted to make sure nobody else ever would.

My apartment's hallway floorboards creaked. Heavy footsteps. Coming toward my door.

At 4:30 in the morning.

I shoved the papers into my pocket and grabbed my laptop, mind racing. The footsteps stopped. Right outside my door.

Then the doorknob started to turn.