When I discovered thirty red spots that looked like insect eggs on my husband’s back, I panicked and rushed him to the emergency room — only for the doctor to take one look and say, “Call the police.”

When it was over, Oliver lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t cry, but his silence was heavier than words.

He quit his job a few weeks later, unable to focus in crowded offices or sit beneath fluorescent lights. He said the noise made him feel watched. Detective Grant checked in regularly, but there was little she could do. The company’s lawyers drowned the case in settlements and sealed records. No one faced real punishment.

The government released a single statement calling it “an unauthorized research incident.” That was all. Life moved on, at least for everyone else.

But at night, Oliver still wakes up sweating, convinced he feels something crawling beneath his skin. Each time, I turn on the lamp and check his back. The scars are faint now, but the fear never fades.

Last week, while organizing the bathroom shelf, I found another pack of those patches tucked behind a box of vitamins. The packaging had changed slightly. The colors were brighter. A new slogan promised “smart relief through innovative technology.”

I stood there for a long time, the packet trembling in my hand.