Chapter 1 #2
I kept my expression neutral, though something cold settled in my chest.
“How do you…”
“Know about the work that makes you question your own methods?” He tilted his head, studying my reaction with cold curiosity. “SENTINEL’s files aren’t as secure as they think. Or maybe I’m remembering things I shouldn’t know. Hard to tell the difference anymore.”
Every instinct told me to run, but I took the chair positioned precisely at the limit of his reach. “If you’ve read my files, then you know I don’t give up easily.”
“No.” Something shifted in his expression: surprise, perhaps, or respect.
“You don’t. Even when you should. Even when it costs you everything.
” He leaned forward, the restraint pulling taut.
“Tell me, Doctor, do you still have moments where you doubt your own judgment? When you wonder if some minds are meant to stay broken? Ever felt like you were flinching when someone moves too fast?”
My pulse quickened, but I kept my hands steady on my lap.
“We’re not here to discuss my methods.”
“Aren’t we?” He settled back, that disturbing smile curving at his lips again.
“People like us spot each other. It’s why Dawson really chose you.
Not for your expertise, but because you’ve been tested by failure too.
You understand what it’s like to have your certainties shaken, to realize that some damage might be permanent. ”
“Is that what happened to you? Someone convinced you that your original self wasn’t worth saving?”
“Someone.” The laugh came low and bitter.
“Such a small word for such a large absence. I know there was a before. I can feel the shape of it, like a hole in my jaw where a tooth was pulled. But when I reach for it…” Fingers pressed to his temple, wincing.
“Have you ever tried to remember a dream while you’re still dreaming it?
The harder you grasp, the faster it dissolves. ”
“The conditioning creates neural barriers. Your memories aren’t gone, just isolated. We can work on building bridges…”
“We.” He tested the word like wine. “You’ve already decided to help me. Even knowing what I am. Even knowing what I’ve done.”
“I don’t know what you’ve done.”
“I’ve killed people, Doctor. With these hands.
” He flexed his free fingers, studying them with detached interest. “I remember the mechanics of it. How much pressure to collapse a windpipe. The angle required to slide a blade between ribs. The way a body goes slack when the brain stem is severed. Clinical knowledge, cleanly preserved. But the faces…” Those steel eyes found mine again. “The faces are smoke.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“You’re asking if I feel guilt? Remorse? Horror?” A pause for consideration. “I feel… curious. Like I’m reading someone else’s diary, trying to understand why they made the choices they did. Is that normal, Doctor? To be a stranger to your own sins?”
“In cases of severe dissociative conditioning, it’s expected. The mind protects itself by…”
“I don’t want protection.” The words came out sharp, hard. His whole body tensed, free fist tightening. “I want to remember. Even if it destroys me. Even if what I find is worse than this nothing.”
“Why?”
“Because someone stole my choices. My sins. My very self.” His volume dropped low. “And I want them back. All of them. Even the monstrous parts. Especially those.”
The conviction in his tone tightened something under my ribs. This wasn’t about redemption or healing. This was about reclamation. Ownership. He wanted his darkness back not to atone for it, but to possess it.
“And if recovering those memories breaks you completely?”
“Then at least I’ll break as myself.”
We stared at each other across the small space, and I recognized something in him I’d never admitted to seeing in a patient before: kinship. The desperate need to own your damage rather than be owned by it.
“I’ll help you. But we do this my way. No games. No manipulation. You want your memories back? Then you have to trust me.”
“Trust.” He savored the concept. “Such a fragile thing to ask of someone who can’t even trust himself.
” His gaze held mine steadily. “But then again, you still trust, don’t you?
Even after discovering that some patients can’t be saved, that some conditioning runs too deep.
That’s what makes you dangerous, Doctor. You still believe in redemption.”
“Do you want redemption?”
“No.” Flat, final. “I want revelation. I want to look my monster in the eye and recognize myself. Can you give me that, Doctor? Or will you try to save me despite myself?”
Before I could answer, his body went rigid. Pupils dilated, then contracted to pinpoints. A low groan escaped him as his free palm clutched at his temple.
“Specter?”
His breathing changed: rapid, shallow. When his lashes lifted again, something fundamental had shifted. The calculated control was gone, replaced by raw panic.
“Where…” The tone was different, rougher, accent more pronounced. He yanked against the restraint hard enough to draw blood. “What is this place? Who are…” His focus landed on me, and for a moment, there was no recognition. Then: “You. You’re the one who watches. Always watching.”
“I’m Dr. Crawford. You’re safe…”
“No one’s safe.” He lunged forward, the restraint catching him short, but his free grip caught my wrist before I could pull back. Stronger than I’d expected. “They’re coming. They never stopped looking. Oblivion doesn’t let go of what belongs to them.”
“Specter...”
“That’s not my name!” The words tore from his throat. “I had a name. A real name. They took it, carved it out, but sometimes… sometimes, I almost…” His grip loosened, confusion replacing panic. “Who are you?”
“I’m here to help you remember.”
“Remember.” Ragged in that laugh. “I remember blood. So much blood. A woman screaming. Children crying. But I don’t know if I was saving them or…” His pupils rolled back, body convulsing once before going completely motionless.
“I need medical in here!”
But before Mattie could enter, his lashes snapped open. The panic was gone. The calculation was back. But there was something else now: a fracture in his practiced control.
“You saw him. The other one. The one they buried under all this programming.”
“Is he still in there? The person you were before?”
“Sometimes. In fragments. Screaming to get out.” He released my wrist, his fingers brushing my palm, and I tensed. “But here’s the thing, Doctor. I’m not sure he’s someone you’d want to meet. The programming didn’t create the monster. It just gave it purpose.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Don’t I?” This time, the smile held something almost gentle. “You should run, Dr. Crawford. Walk out that door and tell Dawson to find someone else. Someone who doesn’t have their own ghosts. Someone who won’t recognize themselves in me.”
“Is that what you want?”
“What I want…” A pause, seeming to taste the concept. “What I want is to remember her face.”
“Whose face?”
“The ones I either saved or killed. She had bright eyes, like yours. She trusted me, I think. Or maybe, she was terrified. The memories bleed together.” He looked at our hands, so close on the bed. “Do you know what it’s like, Doctor, to not know if you’re a hero or a monster?”
“Yes.”
The word slips out before I can hold it back.
His gaze locks onto mine, sharp and perceptive.
I barely have time to blink before his palm touches my cheek and he pulls me toward him for a kiss.
Surprise stuns me, but the warmth of his lips shakes me enough to make me respond to the contact.
It all happens in just a few seconds before he leans back, breaking the moment.
“That, Doctor, is the first honest thing either of us has said.”
He leaned back, breaking the moment. “Come back tomorrow. Bring your tools, your techniques, your desperate need to fix broken things. And I’ll give you pieces of myself. But remember: puzzles cut both ways. Sometimes, putting them together means getting cut on the edges.”
I stood, legs steadier than they should’ve been. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Specter.”
“Doctor.” His call stopped me at the door. “That doubt in your eyes when you look at difficult cases. Do you ever forgive yourself for the ones you couldn’t save?”
I turned back, meeting that pale-gray gaze one last time. “No.”
“Good.” His smile was sharp and thin. “Forgiveness is overrated. But understanding… understanding is everything. Sweet dreams, Dr. Crawford. Try not to think too much about what I might remember tomorrow.”
Outside, his attention seemed to stick, and the spot where he’d touched my palm felt too warm. Mattie was waiting, medical equipment forgotten, her complexion pale.
“Selina, what just happened in there?”
“I’m not sure. But I think we just declared war.”
“On what?”
“On the walls between who he was and what he’s become.” I touched my temple, feeling the beginning of a tension headache. “The question is whether I’ll survive the collapse.”
Seok emerged from the shadows where he’d been observing. “You can still walk away. No one would blame you.”
“Yes. They would. He would. And worse, I would.”
Because he was right. We always recognize our own. And in those mercury eyes, I’d seen my own reflection staring back: broken, rebuilt, and desperately searching for the missing pieces.
Tomorrow, I would return. Tomorrow, we would begin the careful work of unraveling his mind.
Tonight, I would dream of metal-gray eyes and snow, and wonder which of us was really the patient.
The game had begun.
And I was already losing.