Two days later, Rebecca stood in her apartment with a single backpack beside her. She had packed lightly, with enough clothes for a week. She confirmed that her passport and the invitation were tucked into her coat pocket. Everything else not broken had been placed in a small storage unit.
Before bed the last two nights, she researched her potential employer, making notes on a yellow legal pad. Her laptop had suffered a cracked screen during her tantrum, but it worked. Propped up by a pillow, she typed quickly in the search bar:
“The Oracle Group.”
According to their webpage, the Oracle Group was a privately funded global organization that claimed to preserve artifacts and interpret something called “cultural echoes.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she wondered as she jotted it down.
It operated like a ghost, with no clear leadership or financial records, only a Geneva headquarters and remote field offices in places like Luxor, Xi’an, and Ushuaia.
She did discover that the organization funded several charities, which she found promising.
The only logo was an unusual beehive-shaped symbol topped with a stylized eye and surrounded by laurel leaves.
“That’s great, but what do you guys actually do?” she muttered.
She tried a different search:
“Dr. Elsie Stone.”
This produced only an old photo from the 1980s of a woman at a collapsed Delphi dig site, labeled as “lead consultant, archeo-mythology division.” Some academic journals briefly referenced her theory of “deep memory resonance,” in which similar heroes appear across civilizations, but all mentions of it ended about thirty years ago, after which Elsie Stone vanished.
When she tried to return to the organization’s webpage, she discovered her cache had been cleared.
“What the hell? That’s not supposed to be possible.”
She reloaded the page.
Some of the information that she read earlier was now missing.
“Okay,” she said, drawing the word out. She wrote down “archaeology or museum?”
There were a few mentions on academic forums and fringe archaeology blogs, whispers of excavation projects stretching from the Arctic Circle to the sands of the Middle East. One conspiracy site claimed the group was a front for a secret society or cult, but provided more paranoia than facts.
“Well, they’ve got money, but still no obvious business model.” She scratched “why me?” on the pad and underlined it.
The thought lingered: what exactly was the job, and how had they found her? She rubbed her temple with a heavy sigh and closed the laptop with a soft click. She slept restlessly the night before her departure, dreams plaguing her, and was up before dawn.
With a final deep breath, she stepped out of her apartment, gently closing the door behind her. The lock clicked with a soft finality. She rested a hand against the door, staring at the chipped paint, then let out a short, dry chuckle.
The landlord was going to have apoplexy. Yeah, that deposit was long gone. She hadn’t even bothered to leave a note. What would it say? There was no one left to read it, not really. No family to call or friends she trusted enough to explain the chaos her life had become.
The sun had not yet risen when she adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and walked down the cracked stairwell toward the Uber waiting impatiently in the parking lot.
The air outside was sharp and biting, but she was oddly calm. Her flight itinerary said that after a layover in Atlanta, she was scheduled to arrive at Juan Santamaría International Airport after noon. Her ticket read First Class. She’d never flown First Class in her life. It was the first hint that maybe this whole thing wasn’t a scam, or at least not the typical kind.
The ride to the airport was smooth. She almost expected to be robbed or told there was no flight for her. Instead, she received full VIP treatment. The Oracle Group handled everything.
However, as the plane rose through the clouds, Rebecca’s doubts resurfaced. What kind of organization would fly an out-of-work financial graduate across continents with no explanation beyond “a unique career opportunity”? But it didn’t really matter; this was the only door open to her.
The descent into Costa Rica was breathtaking, revealing endless green jungle and a glimmer of ocean. The crowded airport buzzed with travelers in sunhats and sandals. She adjusted her duffel and scanned the arrival gate.
A tall man in a dark suit stood apart from the chaos, holding a handwritten placard reading “Ms. Stadler” in elegant letters. He was bald on top with greying hair on the sides, dressed in a tailored charcoal three-piece suit, unaffected by the heat. His square jaw and straight posture suggested parade rest rather than valet. Old scars marked his face without softening his composed expression. She guessed he was ex-military, possibly special forces.
As she drew near, he nodded. “Ms. Stadler,” he said in a smooth British accent, “Welcome to Costa Rica. You may call me Windham. I represent the Oracle Group. If you’ll follow me, your car is waiting.”
He turned with a precision that left no room for argument. Rebecca fell into step behind him. Weaving through the crowd, he led her out of the terminal and into the dense tropical air. He moved with an effortless awareness of everything around them, as though chaos simply parted for him.
“Nice to meet you, Windham,” she offered. “The Oracle Group, do you mind telling me exactly what they do?”
“I’m afraid that information isn’t mine to share,” he replied. “Professor Stone will explain everything upon your arrival.”
“Uh huh,” she said slowly. “If I’m only a potential employee, why all the special treatment?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re an honored guest.”
Rebecca huffed, “Well, aren’t you just a Windham-pedia of information.”
They reached the curb, where a car that didn’t belong in this century waited beneath the portico. She stared in awe. A Rolls-Royce Phantom III, deep navy blue with sleek lines and a chrome grille catching the light, sat in front of her. The car radiated quiet wealth and old-world prestige.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she muttered.
Windham opened the rear door and gestured. “I assure you, Ms. Stadler, I never kid.”
She slipped into the plush interior, the scent of aged leather and faint cologne surrounding her. Windham slid into the driver’s seat, and with a soft purr from the engine, they pulled into the Costa Rican afternoon. Palm trees blurred past the window.
She tried again, “This is a lot for a job interview. The itinerary was a little vague about the hotel. Is it far from here?”
“You won’t be staying at a hotel,” Windham said without glancing back. “Dr. Stone will be hosting you at her villa.”
“Her villa,” she repeated. “Right. So, this is either incredibly flattering… or the most first-class kidnapping I’ve ever heard of.”
Windham smiled almost imperceptibly. “Most guests find it’s a matter of perspective.”
Her lips pressed together, holding back more questions that threatened to surface, but she chose to let them simmer for now.
“Would you like to listen to some music?” Windham inquired.
Rebecca nodded. “Do you have any old blues?”
Windham smiled in approval. He didn’t reach for any controls, and there was no visible stereo, but the sound of Buddy Guy’s guitar began to fill the cabin.
They drove east for several hours. The further they traveled from the city, the narrower the roads became. Smooth pavement gave way to cracked two-lane stretches, then to packed dirt paths that wound through dense jungle. The signs of civilization gradually vanished, replaced by towering trees and the calls of unfamiliar birds. The humidity was heavy, and the air carried the rich scent of earth and wet leaves. For miles, there was no sign of anything but jungle.
Rebecca began to wonder what kind of remote outpost she was being taken to when the jungle opened without warning. The dirt road returned to smooth black pavement, clean and perfectly maintained. The trees pulled back, revealing a wide, carefully landscaped approach that blended seamlessly with the surrounding wilderness.
The car rolled to a stop before a tall iron gate set into a pristine stone wall. Ivy climbed its edges, carefully trimmed. Overhead, a cleanly carved arch bore a simple inscription: DOMVS ORACVLI
Windham leaned out of the driver’s side window, moving with the same calm efficiency. He brushed aside a section of vine to reveal a concealed keypad and entered a short code. The gate opened smoothly, and the paved drive continued beyond, leading them into the Compound.
Nestled in a clearing was a sprawling hacienda-style estate with wide balconies, warm terracotta roofs, and lush gardens alive with color. It was something pulled from a forgotten century, carefully maintained.
Windham escorted her to the front steps before pressing a small envelope into her hand, stopping her from asking another question.
“Professor Stone will see you tomorrow,” he said. “In the meantime, Alex will see to your comfort.”
Then he was gone. Rebecca stood alone as the car pulled away, watching until the taillights vanished behind the trees. The envelope turned slowly in her hands while she tried to make sense of it all. Her attention drifted back to the entrance of the villa. Should she knock, or wait for this “Alex” to come out? She pictured someone quiet and reserved in her mind, a butler perhaps, or a caretaker.
The villa’s double doors swung open, and her eyes widened.
The man in the doorway was enormous. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist beneath a simple linen shirt. His dark hair fell to his shoulders, framing a well-kept beard that accentuated his strong features.
His eyes were an odd, pale blue like a husky’s. His look was direct and appraising. Then he smiled, and the stillness broke. There was a smudge of blue paint dried into the crease of his knuckle, and when he caught her looking at it, he flexed his hand like he was hiding evidence.
“Cerulean,” he said. “Don’t ask. It has been a very long argument with a stubborn sky.”
He stepped toward her, extending his hand. “You are obviously Ms. Stadler.” His voice was so deep she felt it as much as heard it. “I’m Alex. Welcome to Costa Rica.”
“Uh… hi, I’m Rebecca. Thank you. Yes—Costa Rica…”
Her brain had stalled completely.
“It’s very… green.”
He tilted his head, amused.
She winced and reminded herself that this was a job interview.
Alex spared her further embarrassment. “Come on,” he said gently. “I’ll show you to your room.”
Inside, the villa was cool and expansive, stone corridors opening into high-ceilinged halls and open courtyards alive with the sound of water and distant insects. While they were walking, Alex gestured.
“The west wing is private,” he said. “The lower gardens, the library, and the outer courtyards are open to you. You may walk the grounds freely within the walls.”
“Within the walls,” she repeated. “And beyond them?”
Alex glanced at her with a slight smile and said, “That wouldn’t be advisable.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he said, “we’re in a jungle.” His mouth twitched. “And I would have to fill out paperwork if something decided you were tasty enough to eat. I hate paperwork.”
She laughed before she could stop herself, then turned quickly away and pretended to study a nearby painting.
She decided that if it didn’t involve finance, she should probably stop talking. Yes. That seemed like an excellent idea.
Before she could embarrass herself further, another voice drifted down the hallway.
“Alex, stop teasing our guest and show her to her room.”
The speaker rounded the corner, and Rebecca was once again forced to maintain her composure.
The woman approaching them had long, wavy hair black enough to swallow the light around it. She moved in a sort of glide, each step fluid and graceful, but slightly out of sync. Her skin was a little too pale and shone as though lit from within. Though clad in a simple black dress, she had the graceful contours that made it appear elegant and refined.
The woman’s gaze flicked briefly to Alex with restrained amusement.
“My apologies. Alex occasionally forgets that not everyone here enjoys his sense of humor.”
Alex inclined his head, neither apologetic nor offended.
The woman shifted her focus entirely to Rebecca, and up close, her eyes were impossible to look away from. A golden hue that was warm and unsettling in the same breath.
Something flickered across her face as her gaze dropped briefly to the faint scrape still healing above Rebecca’s eyebrow. Just as quickly and deliberately, it was smoothed away.
“I’m Sasha,” she said. “Welcome to the Compound.”
“The Compound,” Rebecca echoed faintly.
“Yes,” Sasha replied, waving a hand dismissively. “I realize it sounds a bit ominous, but it’s simply what we call the place. We’re deep in the jungle, so it’s more practical to live and work here. If you’re… chosen for the position, you’ll be doing both.”
She smiled faintly. “It can be challenging at times, but also rewarding. You have my sympathy and my congratulations. Few are invited, and fewer choose to stay.”
“Lucky me,” Rebecca murmured.
Sasha’s smile widened a fraction. “Luck will certainly help,” she said. “I wish you the best of it.”
She cast Alex a pointed look, which he calmly ignored, then swept past them down the corridor, her presence lingering long after she was gone.
Rebecca exhaled slowly. “Good lord. Is everyone here this… unique? I’m starting to think I’ve been brought in as the control group.”
Alex surprised her with a loud, booming laugh that echoed down the hall.
“You’ll fit in fine,” he said, grinning. “If anything, you’re a refreshing change.”
She glanced up at him, unconvinced.
“Trust me,” he added. “The Compound has a way of bringing out exactly what belongs here.”
They stopped at a heavy wooden door. He took the envelope from her hand, opened it, and gave her the key inside, engraved with the number XIV.
“Your room,” he said. “Dinner is waiting inside. If you need anything else, there’s an intercom on the wall.”
“That’s… reassuring,” Rebecca said. “Can I ask what the Oracle Group actually is and what you do here?”
Alex met her gaze. “You can ask.”
“And will you answer?”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Not tonight.”
He stepped back, already retreating down the hallway.
“Sleep well, Rebecca,” he said. “Tomorrow is your… interview. I wish you the best of luck and hope we’ll be working together soon.”
She watched him go, then put the key in the door. It unlocked smoothly, and she stepped inside. The door closed quietly behind her, leaving her alone.
Warm light filtered into the room. High ceilings rose above gauzy white curtains that stirred in the breeze. A bed carved from polished oak dominated the room.
The door was cool against her back as she leaned against it, exhausted. Even surrounded by comfort, she could not force her body to relax. Why was there an expansive villa in the far reaches of the jungle, staffed by beautiful, friendly people? It made no sense.
Finally, sitting on the edge of the bed, she found a notecard tucked inside the envelope that held her key. She pulled it out and read the neat, handwritten script:
Ms. Stadler,
Welcome to the villa. Remember, everything begins with a choice. I look forward to meeting with you tomorrow.
—Dr. Stone
P.S. There are bandages in the nightstand.
She shook her head and attempted to return the card to the envelope. She cursed and jerked her hand away quickly as the flap sliced through her fingertip.
After a moment of sucking on her bleeding finger, she noticed a faint red smudge next to the last line on the card.
She glanced briefly at the nightstand.
“Um… No.” She held the card out, pinched between two fingers, and dropped it in the wastebasket before moving to examine the food.
As promised, a covered tray sat on the small table near the bed. The scent reached her first, rich and inviting, and her stomach responded with a loud, indignant growl. She stepped closer and lifted the lid, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam that wrapped around her.
The meal was simple but inviting with a variety of meats and cheeses. A small ceramic cup held a dark, steaming liquid with an unmistakable, rich aroma. The fresh Costa Rican coffee alone was enough to make her swoon. She hoped the Oracle Group treated its employees as well as its guests.
She sank into the bed, exhaustion finally overtaking her. Whatever this place was, it had given her some quiet and a full stomach, and after the past few weeks, she was immensely grateful. She ran through the scant information known about the company and mentally rehearsed interview answers she had given a dozen times before. Somewhere between interest rates and balance sheets, sleep claimed her at last.
That night, her dreams were different than usual, though vivid and strange. She stood alone in a vast marble hallway lined with towering mirrors. Each reflection showed a different version of herself: a polished woman in a business suit, staring hollow-eyed into the glass; a small girl clutching broken pieces of a porcelain angel, tears streaking down her dirt-smudged cheeks; a wild-eyed warrior cloaked in fire and ash, her mouth open in a scream of rage; and countless others.
A tall figure, in a pristine white lab coat, stood at the far end of the corridor. His face was obscured by shadow, but the object in his hands gleamed unmistakably. It was a glass sphere, light pulsing softly from within, like it held a heartbeat.
“It’s time, Rebecca,” he said, his voice vibrating through the floor. “It’s time to learn who you are.”
She jolted awake. The jungle outside lay quiet beneath a blanket of darkness, the night air heavy and unfamiliar. She rubbed her temple and then punched her pillow several times in irritation. The travel, the exhaustion, and the pressure of an interview were weighing on her. She couldn’t afford to let her imagination run wild. This job was desperately needed. There was nothing else waiting for her.
With a soft groan, she rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. “This, however,” she mumbled to no one in particular, “is in no way a typical job interview.”
Rebecca awoke to the gentle hum of the jungle and the golden light of dawn spilling across the tile floor. For a moment, she forgot where she was. The room was calm, the air warm and fragrant with orchids. Only when her bare feet touched the cool tile did her memory return, bringing back the letter, the flight, the strange estate, and her upcoming interview with Professor Stone.
After quickly pulling on some clothes, she padded over to the door. Opening it, she found a neatly arranged breakfast tray waiting outside. The sight alone lifted her spirits.
She carried it inside and ate slowly, savoring each bite as the jungle stirred awake beyond the windows. So far, everything had far exceeded her expectations.
Once finished eating, she showered and dressed for her interview. She pulled her suit out of her duffel and frowned at the wrinkles. Her ivory blouse was smoothed, the collar adjusted, every detail inspected in the mirror, anything to project confidence. She laid out her notes next, silently rehearsing her answers and checking the time more than once. When she finally paused, nearly an hour remained to spare.
She slipped on her shoes, took one last look at the room, and stepped out into the villa, deciding to explore at least a little before it was time for the interview.
The estate was much larger than she had realized the night before. The corridor outside her room stretched in both directions, lined with carved wooden doors marked with Roman numerals. Each door had the same keyhole style as hers. The air smelled of sandalwood and lemon, and the floor was polished to a glossy shine. Every few steps, a small niche in the wall displayed a sculpture or artifact. Some were clearly ancient, while others appeared strangely futuristic.
Rebecca paused in front of a long glass case set into the stone wall. Inside was a set of tiny tools, including onyx blades, bone needles, and copper tweezers, arranged around a piece of Egyptian cloth. Above it was a plaque etched in Latin. She understood enough to grasp the general meaning.
Tools of the flesh-weaver
3rd Age
“That’s creepy.” She shuddered. Was this some kind of museum?
Further down the corridor, she passed a massive oil painting of a woman in an ornate 18th-century gown, whose eyes glowed faintly red, and runes were etched into the hem of her dress. Beneath it read:
“Empress Caterina of the Hollow Court, exiled 1793.”
That was the second display with an occult feel. Moving more quickly, she entered a library with fifteen-foot shelves packed with books, stone tablets, film reels, and hard drives. A Sumerian clay tablet was displayed beside a 1990s Game Boy, with a note pinned nearby.
“Same content. Different medium. The code persists.”
Was this a residence? A research facility? A cult compound?
“God, don’t let it be a cult,” she prayed.
Eventually, she reached a large, sunlit courtyard. Vines spilled over lattice walls, and strange white birds hopped along the edge of a reflecting pool. She sat on a stone bench and exhaled, her mind buzzing with questions.
What was this place, and why was all of this happening to her? She was no one special, merely another finance graduate, burdened with debt and bad luck. They could have easily recruited someone closer, with actual accounting experience. Yet, somehow, they had found her. Perhaps it was one of her applications, an uploaded résumé, or a desperate post she scarcely remembered submitting. Whatever the reason, it had brought her here.
Her attention settled on a larger marble statue in the dappled shade of a flowering olive tree, half-embraced by its gnarled roots. Weathered by centuries yet still powerful, the robed figure stood poised, one hand raised in warning, the other extended gently.
Her half-closed eyes and serene face seemed suspended between dream and waking. A watchful serpent coiled at her feet, and beneath her hand, an empty stone bowl waited on its tripod, promising something yet to come.
Rebecca loved sculpture, and the beauty of the piece captivated her. She’d seen something similar once before in an art appreciation class barely remembered. At one point, she’d even considered a career in art, but didn’t want to become the cliché of the starving artist. She shook her head. “Yeah, and how’s that working out?”
She searched her memory, trying to place the figure, but all she could recall was that it was some prophet from Greek mythology. Maybe she was a priestess, believed to serve as a vessel of the divine.
A bronze plaque was set into the stone base, polished and untouched by time. Inscribed in elegant Greek script and translated below in English, it read:
Time shifts with answers.
All paths exist until a choice is made.
She rubbed at the bumps that had risen on her arms. A quiet certainty settled over her; someone, or something, had heard her. The statue’s calm gaze stared down.
“So, Miss Creepy,” she muttered, “you gonna tell me my future?”
The courtyard answered with silence. Even the birds had stopped chattering. A soft creak of a door sounded from somewhere behind her.
“Ms. Stadler?” said a calm, gravel-edged voice. “Professor Stone will see you now.”
Windham stood beneath the far archway, composed as ever. With a final glance at the statue, she rose and followed him through the shadowy halls. Whatever she had imagined, this wasn’t it. This was certain to be unlike any job she’d ever been offered.