The Hidden Compartment

I bypassed my main servers and opened a hidden analog safe bolted into the floorboards.

Inside was a mahogany box of my father’s personal effects — the items recovered from his office before the military cleared it out. Photographs. A worn compass.

And his dog tags.

I picked up the chains, charred around the edges, and ran my thumb over the embossed letters: HARPER, ARTHUR. O POSITIVE.

A fragment of memory surfaced, hazy from childhood — my father showing me a magic trick. Never trust the surface, Claire. Always look for the hidden compartment.

I took precision pliers from my kit, clamped them on the edge of the thicker tag, and applied pressure. The metal gave with a soft snap.