Hunted to Be Mine (Erased #2)

Chapter 1

Selina

The retinal scanner’s red beam stung my eye, and I bit back the familiar curse. Fourth verification today. Each one deeper than the last, as if SENTINEL’s security systems were digging to verify I was still human.

“Identity confirmed: Dr. Selina Crawford. Clearance Level Six. Access granted.”

Level Six. In three years of consulting for SENTINEL, I’d never been cleared past Level Four. Whatever waited beyond these barriers had them desperate enough to break their own protocols.

Colored spots popped at the edges of my vision as I blinked. My fingertips found the familiar pressure point at my temple, a useless attempt to soothe the burning that always followed these deep verifications. The heavy barrier slid open with a pneumatic hiss, the kind that says keep moving.

The corridor beyond stretched in clinical sterility.

No windows. No visible exits except the way I’d come.

The walls swallowed sound. Professional habit logged it all in three seconds: twelve cameras, overlapping fields of coverage, blind spot near the third entrance on the left, too small to be useful.

Two guards, non-standard weapons with modifications that suggested they expected to face more than a drunk trespasser.

“Dr. Crawford.” The guard’s tone was professionally neutral, but her palm rested on that modified weapon. “Arms out, please.”

The device she ran along my body was military-grade, the kind that could detect explosive residue at the molecular level. It beeped at my right ankle.

“Titanium pin. Childhood accident.”

She finally waved me through, though her gaze tracked me until I rounded the corner.

“Selina!”

My body tightened before recognition hit, weight shifting to the balls of my feet.

Dr. Mattie Prieto burst through a security entrance like she was being chased, lab coat billowing, coffee stains on her sleeve, and that wild energy that had made her the youngest neuroscientist SENTINEL had ever recruited.

“Jesus, Mattie.” My shoulders gradually relaxed, though the adrenaline dump left my fingers trembling. “A little warning?”

She pulled me into a fierce hug that smelled of espresso and the vanilla lotion she’d worn since grad school. “Three months of radio silence and that’s my greeting?”

The embrace surprised me with how much I’d missed her. We’d been close once, before SENTINEL had classified her work beyond my clearance level. “You’re the one who disappeared into the black site void. How’s the mystery project?”

Her laugh came too quick, too bright. “You know I can’t…” She glanced at the guards, then linked her arm through mine, grip tighter than casual. “God, I’ve missed you. How was Columbia? Standing room only for your lecture series, I heard.”

”’Breaking the Unbreakable Mind’ has a certain appeal to academics who’ve never seen real conditioning.” I studied her features, noting the shadows under her lashes, her constant checking over her shoulder. “Though I doubt Director Dawson called me here to discuss cognitive theory.”

At Dawson’s name, the guards straightened imperceptibly. Even three levels deep in SENTINEL’s maze, the Director cast a long shadow.

“Always so direct.” Her smile didn’t reach those tired eyes. “Remember Bangalore? When we spent three days analyzing cult programming on nothing but curry and espresso?”

“You fell asleep standing up during the final presentation.”

“And you covered for me without missing a beat.” Her expression softened for a moment. “We made a good team.”

“We still would if SENTINEL hadn’t poached you for whatever classified nightmare has you this spooked.”

She flinched. Really flinched.

“Mattie, what the hell is going on?”

“It’s not…” She stopped, pulled me closer. “This isn’t like the other cases, Selina. The asset we’re holding… Dawson pulled strings that shouldn’t exist to get you here this fast.”

“Asset?” My tone stayed level, but a cold line ran along my back. SENTINEL’s terminology was specific. Subjects were victims. Suspects were criminals. Assets were weapons.

Before she could answer, footsteps approached from behind: measured, deliberate, designed to announce presence. I turned, positioning myself to keep both the newcomer and Mattie in view.

Chief Damon Seok stepped out of the shadow.

Six-foot-three of controlled violence in a tactical uniform that did nothing to civilize what he was.

South Korean features carved sharp enough to cut, eyes like dark glass.

I’d worked with dangerous men before. Seok was something else, danger distilled and leashed, but only barely.

“Dr. Prieto. Dr. Crawford.” His accent was subtle, barely there. His gaze lingered on Mattie a fraction too long, something almost human showing before he locked it down. “Commander Dawson wants Dr. Crawford to proceed directly to initial assessment.”

“Without briefing?” Mattie’s pitch rose. “That’s against…”

“Protocol’s been adjusted.” He was already moving, expecting us to follow. “Brief her en route.”

I fell into step, noting how Mattie unconsciously matched his pace. “Does someone want to tell me what I’m walking into?”

“His designation is Specter. The only name he remembers. Are you familiar with Project Marionette?”

My stomach dropped. “The theoretical framework for complete personality overlay? That was banned by the Geneva Convention’s psychological warfare amendments.”

“Theoretical.” Seok’s tone made it clear how naive that assumption had been.

“An organization called Oblivion took those theories and turned them into an art form. Complete identity destruction and reconstruction. Perfect deniability because even the operatives don’t even know who they really were. ”

“And Specter is one of these… reconstructed operatives?”

“Was.” Mattie pulled up brain images on her tablet, handed it to me. “He turned himself in to the S?o Paulo police who contacted us. He said he wanted to remember. Something has started breaking down in him. His conditioning is fragmenting.”

The patterns on screen were unlike anything in the literature: compartmentalization so complete it was almost elegant, if you could ignore what it represented.

But there, in the prefrontal cortex, chaos.

Synapses firing in patterns that should’ve been impossible, like watching a computer virus eat through code.

“These breach patterns… This isn’t degradation. This is active resistance. His original personality is fighting back.”

“Three interrogators have tried to help him recover his memories.” Seok stopped at another checkpoint, this one guarded by men in full tactical gear. “He’s either playing games or too damaged to access anything useful. Commander Dawson believes you might have better luck.”

Through the observation window, I caught my first glimpse of him.

Specter sat on the edge of a medical bed, one wrist secured to the frame with a restraint that looked more symbolic than functional.

Mid-thirties, perhaps, though something in his bearing suggested age measured differently for him.

Dark hair fell across his forehead, needing a cut.

His build was lean, functional: a swimmer’s body rather than a soldier’s, built for efficiency rather than display.

But it was those eyes that stopped me cold.

Silver-gray, flat as storm clouds, and unnervingly still. Not the calm of peace or meditation. This was the quiet of a predator that had learned to hide in plain sight. He wasn’t looking at the window, but I knew he was aware of every person watching him.

“What crimes was he involved in?”

“We’re still determining that.” Seok’s reflection appeared beside mine in the glass. “What we do know is that Oblivion used him for wetwork. High-value targets. People who needed to disappear without questions.”

“How many?”

“He claims he doesn’t know. The memories are there, but disconnected. Like watching someone else’s life through frosted glass.”

Specter shifted slightly, just his head turning toward the window. Our gazes met through the one-way glass. Impossible. He couldn’t see me, but that pale gray stare found me with uncanny accuracy.

A smile touched his lips. Not pleasure. Recognition.

“He knows I’m here.”

“Impossible. That glass is…”

“He knows.” I moved away from the window, heart hammering. “How long has he been requesting me specifically?”

Mattie and Seok exchanged glances.

“He hasn’t.” Mattie spoke slowly. “Dawson selected you based on your work with deprogramming. Specter doesn’t even know your name.”

But that smile said otherwise. That smile said he’d been waiting.

“One hand will remain secured.” Seok warned as Mattie moved to unlock the entrance. “But don’t mistake that for safety. Whatever he says, whatever he does, remember what he is.”

“And what exactly is he?”

“A weapon that’s beginning to remember it has a choice.”

I pulled off my ID lanyard, tucked it into my pocket. If this was about human connection, institutional authority would only create barriers. My palms stayed steady as I smoothed my blazer, though my pulse was up.

The lock clicked—sharp, small.

Inside, Specter’s attention shifted to me fully.

His focus landed and held. This close, I could see details the window had hidden.

A thin scar along his jawline, neat and straight.

Faint chemical burns on his forearms where tattoos might’ve been removed.

The micro-tremor in his free hand that suggested recent neural stimulation.

“Dr. Selina Crawford.” Smoke and gravel in that voice, carrying an accent I couldn’t place.

Not foreign, but deliberately obscured, like he’d trained himself to speak without origin.

“Expert in cognitive reconstruction. Author of ‘Breaking the Unbreakable Mind.’ Guest lecturer at Columbia, currently on sabbatical due to ongoing research commitments. Though I suspect your real reason for leaving was more personal. Something that made you question whether all minds can truly be healed.”