38. Ellie
ELLIE
My fingers are already digging into the mattress before my eyes even open. I don’t wake up screaming anymore, but it’s a habit I can’t quit. Verifying that the bed is real and I’m not back on the concrete in the dark.
It's been ninety days since the basement. I'm still learning how to be a person again, even if the nightmares have only faded as far as a dull, constant ache at the back of my skull.
Killian is warm beside me. He's the only person I can stand to have this close.
We've spent every morning in the woods behind the house.
He's taught me how to throw a punch that doesn't break my thumb, how to move quietly, and how to hold a knife.
He doesn't look at me like I'm broken anymore. He looks at me like I'm ready.
I get out of bed and dress in the dark. I don't feel like the person I was before the basement. I don't feel like the wreck who crawled out of it, either. I just feel focused.
The kitchen smells like Gabriel's coffee, toasted and earthy. He's leaning against the counter, watching the porch. Jackson is at the table, his fingers moving over the keys in that steady rhythm I've learned to find comforting.
Gabriel glances over his shoulder. "You're up early."
"I'm ready," I say, reaching for a mug. "Tell me Jackson found it."
Jackson doesn't look up, but he slides a tablet across the island. "Denver. The Neurological Research Center. On paper, it's a high-end trauma clinic. In reality, it's where they store the overflow, the people Grace was still working on, and the data they extracted from you."
My fingers tighten around the mug. For three months, I've been the one staying behind while they hit Julian's network.
Six facilities. One hundred and sixty-four operatives neutralized.
Tens of millions seized. I've watched them leave in the dark and come back with blood on their hands. Denver is different. Denver is mine.
Killian appears in the doorway, already dressed in dark tactical pants and a black henley. He looks at me, and I see the worry he's trying to hide.
"Your first strike," he says quietly.
"My first strike," I agree.
We gather around Jackson's screens. The facility is a three-story building, a white stone facade, tinted windows, a discreet sign that reads "Neurological Research Center of Colorado.
" On paper, they treat PTSD and traumatic brain injuries.
Wealthy patients. Private insurance only.
The real work happens in the basement, where they keep the people Grace didn't finish with, and all the research data they extracted.
I've spent the last three months studying every file Jackson pulled from their network, learning how the Order operates. I know how they think.
"This is where they keep the records," I say, my finger tracing the east wing. "The ones Grace considered high-value. The files. The session recordings. Everything they do. It’s where they study the damage to see how to replicate it."
Gabriel grunts, his arms crossed over his massive chest. "So we burn it?"
"Not yet." I look at him. "We don't only want to destroy the building. We want to destroy their confidence. Julian isn't expecting me to fight back. I want to show him that I know his systems better than he does. I want him to know I was there."
Killian’s hand rests on my shoulder. The weight of it doesn't make me flinch like it did; it grounds me. "You're the brains, Ellie. What do we do?"
Jackson pulls up a photo on the screen. "Dr. Richard Mercer. Facility director. Narcissist with a god complex. He's published papers on personality dissolution and thinks he's revolutionizing neuroscience."
"Perfect," I say. "I'll go in as Dr. Sarah Williams. A neuroscientist from a rival clinic interested in their trauma recovery breakthroughs. He won't be able to resist showing off."
Jackson's fingers blur over his keys. "I've already created your credentials. To them, you're a rising star in the Order's academic periphery. Mercer will probably try to recruit you before the tour is over."
"Good. While he's showing off his research, I'll plant Jackson's backdoor and copy their entire database. Every victim file, every psychological profile, every piece of data Julian's been using. He won't know what hit him until it's too late."
Two hours later, I’m standing in front of the mirror, but I don’t recognize the woman looking back.
I’ve traded my worn-out Montana flannels for a cream silk blouse and a charcoal pencil skirt. My hair is pulled back into a slicked-back bun. I look like the version of myself that existed before Grace. The Dr. Eleanor Hart, who believed the world made sense.
My hands are steady until I reach for the dresser.
There’s a small, elegant bottle of perfume sitting there. It wasn't mine. Killian must have grabbed it during one of their raids, thinking I might want something normal again. I pick it up, the glass cool in my palm, and for a second, I forget. I press the atomizer into the air in front of me.
I smell it and freeze.
Lily.
It’s the underlying sweetness that Grace wore. I’ve spent three months trying to forget, it’s not her bottle, but it’s her smell. The walls go flat and white. The dresser disappears. I’m not in Montana anymore; I’m back, strapped down to a metal table.
No. No. No.
I stumble back. The bottle slips from my fingers and shatters against the floorboards. The scent explodes, filling the room, suffocating me. I can’t breathe. I can't find the air because she’s here. She’s in the room. She’s—
"Ellie."
Killian is there before I can hit the ground, his voice cutting through the flashback. He doesn't grab me, he knows better. He stands a foot away, his presence a massive, unmovable wall in the room.
"Breathe," he commands. His voice is a low vibration that cuts through the lily fog. "Look at me, Ellie. You're with me. She's dead. Do you hear me?"
I gasp for air, my lungs burning. I look at him—really look at him—and the cold metal table starts to fade. The smell is still there, sharp and sickening, but he’s louder.
"I broke it," I whisper, looking at the glass shards on the floor. "I’m sorry. I…I."
"I don't care about the bottle." He steps closer, closing the gap until I can smell the wood-smoke and cold air on his skin. His smell. He takes a slow, steady breath, and I follow his lead, matching my rhythm to his until the tremors in my legs stop.
He looks at me, his eyes dark with a mixture of fury and heart-wrenching concern. "We don't have to do this. We can do this without you ever stepping foot in the facility."
I look at my reflection again. The silk blouse is pristine. The bun is perfect. I look exactly like the kind of person a man like Mercer would trust.
"No," I reach out and touch the fabric of Killian’s vest, feeling the hard plates beneath. "If I don't go in there, she's still in my head. I have to be the one to do it, Killian. I need to do this."
He looks at me for a long time. He’s looking for a reason to stop me, but he doesn't find one. The tremor in my hands is gone. He nods, picks up the shards of glass from the floor, and drops them into the bin.
"Then let's go," he says. "And when we're done, they'll wish they'd killed you when they had the chance."
I touch the tiny earpiece hidden in my ear canal one last time. The transmitter clipped to my waistband is barely larger than a USB drive. Jackson promises both are undetectable and won't alert their scanners.
The Neurological Research Center sits in Cherry Creek's medical district, surrounded by other clinics that actually heal people. It looks exactly like what it pretends to be. Clean, expensive, respectable.
The lobby is all glossy white stone and glass. Soft music plays in the lobby. A receptionist smiles from behind a sleek desk. It looks like a place that helps people. But I know what's underneath.
Jackson is a static-filled noise in my ear. "You're in, Ell's. Mercer is on his way down. Remember, he’s a narcissist. Feed the ego, and he’ll give you the keys to the castle."
I smooth my skirt, my fingers grazing the small transmitter Jackson tucked into my waistband.
Dr. Mercer is exactly what I expected. Thin, with greying hair, wire-rimmed glasses and the kind of forced smile that makes my stomach churn. He looks like a man who has spent too much time justifying the unjustifiable.
"Dr. Williams," he says, extending a hand. I take it, keeping my grip firm and professional, ignoring the way my body wants to recoil from his touch. "We’re so pleased you could make the trip. Your work on neural plasticity is absolutely revolutionary."
"You are too kind, Dr Mercer," I reply, my voice smooth and devoid of the scream clawing at my throat. "I’ve always believed that trauma isn't something to be cured. It’s something to be harvested. Your facility’s reputation for deep-tissue memory reconsolidation is second to none."
His eyes light up. I’ve hit the mark. He’s the kind of man who thinks destroy is a synonym for breakthrough.
"Exactly," he beams, swiping his card at the first security gate. "Most academics are too squeamish. They want to heal trauma." He says it like the word tastes bad. "We're not healing. We're rebuilding. You can't renovate a condemned building."
The tour is a whistle-stop of high-end labs and hushed corridors.
I play the part of the admiring colleague, nodding at the right moments, asking pointed, technical questions that make his chest puff with pride.
In reality, I’m mapping the blind spots in their security and counting the seconds Jackson needs to breach their local servers.
By the time we reach the data center, he’s practically preening.
"Our primary server farm," he says, gesturing to the glass-walled room where the Order’s secrets hum in the dark. "This is where the true reconstruction happens. Every session, every metric, every failure... it’s all documented here."