Chapter 3
Selina
I’d studied all night for this session, poring over Specter’s fragmented file until the words blurred. My notes were meticulous: potential trigger words, hypnosis methods, trauma-response indicators. I had a plan.
None of it prepared me for what waited behind that door.
The guard scanned his badge, the lock disengaged with a heavy click, and I entered what should have been a standard interrogation room.
Instead, I found myself in something resembling an upscale hotel lounge.
Leather armchairs. Coffee table. Bookshelves with actual books.
A window, bulletproof glass, certainly, but still natural light streaming through.
And there was Specter, completely unrestrained.
He stood by the glass, fingers hovering over a chess knight. At my entrance, he glanced up, a slow, deliberate scan that traveled from my shoes to my face. No restraints. No guards. Just him, appearing too comfortable in a setting designed to put him at psychological ease rather than contain him.
Dawson. This had Dawson written all over it.
I kept my expression neutral as understanding clicked into place. This was a test, not of Specter, but of me. My judgment. My control. My boundaries. The commander wanted me to fail.
“Dr. Crawford.” Specter straightened, abandoning the chess piece. “They’ve upgraded my accommodations, it seems.”
I crossed to the table, setting down my leather portfolio.
“I’d like to begin with some standard grounding techniques.” I pulled out my notes. “They’ll help establish a baseline for our sessions.”
He approached one of the armchairs, lowering himself into it with easy confidence. Everything about his posture read control: the set of his body, the measured respiration, the way his attention stayed on me.
“Let me guess. Five things you can see, four you can hear, three you can touch?” His mouth curved. “I’m familiar with the exercise.”
I took the seat across from him, careful to maintain eye contact. “Then you understand its purpose.”
“Of course.” He leaned forward slightly. “Five things you can see, Doctor. Starting with how your pupils dilate when I come closer.”
My pulse jumped. I’d expected resistance, but not this rapid reversal.
“This isn’t about me.”
“Isn’t it?” His chair creaked as he edged forward. “Four things you can hear, including that catch in your respiration when I approach.”
The room seemed to shrink, the gap between us constricting in a way therapy doesn’t cover.
Professional training urged me to redirect, to establish boundaries.
Instead, I found myself listening to the soft cadence of his speech, the subtle creak of leather as he adjusted position, the distant hum of the ventilation, and yes, the betraying hitch in my own lungs.
“Three things you can touch,” he continued, dropping his tone. “Should I name them, or would you prefer to?”
Heat crawled up my neck. “That’s enough.”
“Is it?” The question hung there.
I steadied my respiration and reclaimed the distance. “You’re deflecting. Using intimacy as a defense mechanism to avoid actual vulnerability.”
Something shifted in his expression, a flash of surprise at my directness.
“And you’re hiding behind clinical language to avoid acknowledging what’s happening in this room.” He gestured between us. “This… recognition.”
“What I recognize is a practiced manipulator.” I met his stare despite my racing pulse. “What interests me is why you need to manipulate me when you’re the one who sought help.”
His expression shifted, tension easing slightly.
“Perhaps I’m testing boundaries to see if you have any. If you’re worth my time.”
“Or maybe you’re afraid of what happens if we actually do the work you came here for.”
That landed. His entire form went rigid, shoulders tightening briefly.
“You think you know what I came here for.” It wasn’t a question.
“I know you didn’t surrender yourself to SENTINEL to play chess and psychological mind tricks.” I nodded toward the board on the side table. “Though the metaphor isn’t lost on me.”
For the first time, genuine amusement, brief and dark, touched his features. “Which piece do you think you are, Doctor?”
I closed my portfolio, leaning forward to match his posture. “I’m not on the board. I’m the player across from you.”
His smile developed slowly, dangerously. “That’s where you’re wrong. We’re all pieces in this match. The question is who’s controlling us.”
Our eyes locked. The floor seemed unsteady, like one wrong decision would send me somewhere I couldn’t navigate.
“Your turn, Doctor.”
I leaned back, reclaiming some distance.
“You know what fascinates me about chess?” I tapped my finger on the polished table. “It’s not about winning. It’s about revealing who your opponent truly is.”
His focus sharpened, tracking my gesture.
“Every player has a pattern. Some sacrifice pawns too easily. Others cling to their knights even when tactically unwise.” I paused, watching the subtle changes in his expression.
“I’m not here to win against you, Specter.
I’m here because you called for help, and despite your current behavior, I believe that call was genuine. ”
He froze completely—the stillness before violence.
“I’ve studied Oblivion’s conditioning techniques for years, the pieces I could gather, at least. The shattering of identity. The installation of triggers.” I maintained his attention, refusing to glance away. “No one walks away from that intact. Not even you.”
“And you think you can put Humpty Dumpty back together again?” The words cut deep.
“I think you wouldn’t be here if some part of you didn’t want that.”
Silence stretched taut. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Your turn,” I echoed his earlier challenge. “But think carefully. This isn’t about checkmate. It’s about whether you want to remain a piece or become a player.”
“Do you know what they stole from me first?” Specter broke our stalemate. He walked toward the window, giving me room to recover. “Not memories. Not identity.”
I watched him, noting the deliberate gap he maintained. “What then?”
“Choice.” He traced a finger along the bulletproof glass.
“Even the simplest ones. Coffee or tea. Sleep or stay awake. Live or die.” He turned back to me.
“Your file says you specialize in trauma-induced behavioral patterns. Tell me, Doctor, what happens to a mind when every decision is methodically removed?”
“It creates a dependency framework.” I remained seated. “The subject becomes receptive to external control.”
“Subject.” A humorless grin. “Clinical term. Safer that way, isn’t it?”
I met his eyes. “When did you first notice the conditioning failing?”
He began circling the room, with me at its center. “Not failing. Splintering. There’s a difference.”
“When did it start splintering, then?” I remained still, refusing to track his path.
“I don’t recall an exact instance.” His words came from behind me now. “It took some time until the reconditioning sessions stopped… working on me. I didn’t tell them, of course.”
I sensed him approach, the air shifting between us. Not making contact, but near enough that I sensed his body heat through my blazer.
“What I want to know,” he continued, his tone dropping, “is why. Why my mind started recalling things. Why the wipes failed to stick. And if it could allow me to completely shatter that barrier in my head.”
His proximity raised every alarm in my body, but I maintained composure. This was a challenge of boundaries, of control, of my professional resolve.
“I rather enjoy recalling events… like our yesterday’s kiss.”
“That’s not going to work.” I kept my tone steady despite my jangling nerves.
“What isn’t?” Specter continued his circuit, still behind me where I couldn’t see his expression.
“Mentioning our kiss to throw me off balance. To make me seem compromised.”
His soft chuckle drifted over the back of my neck. “Is that what I’m doing?”
I turned, refusing to let him dictate the terms of our interaction any longer. He was nearer than I expected, forcing me to tilt my chin up to maintain eye contact.
“Yes. That’s exactly what you’re doing.” I crossed my arms, creating a physical barrier between us. “And it’s textbook avoidance. When patients sense threat from therapeutic progress, they often attempt to destabilize the professional relationship.”
“Patients.” A smirk played at his lips. “Is that what I am to you?”
“What you are is someone who surrendered to SENTINEL specifically requesting psychological intervention.” I didn’t break our locked stare despite the heat crawling up my neck. “So, either you want my help, or this is all an elaborate charade.”
He advanced another pace, forcing me to either retreat or hold my ground. I chose the latter.
“Did you report it?” His whisper barely carried. “Our little breach of professionalism? Did Dawson give you a stern talking-to about maintaining boundaries with the dangerous subject?”
Real curiosity lurked under the mockery.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I countered. “To know you’ve created consequences for me. That you have power over my career.”
His scrutiny intensified, genuine interest sparking. “You didn’t report it.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“But it could be.” His palm hovered near my face, not making contact but near enough that I could sense the warmth radiating from his skin. “It should be.”
The atmosphere crackled, volatile. Every instinct screamed to withdraw, to reestablish professional boundaries, but I recognized the trap. Each withdrawal would only embolden him. Confirm I could be manipulated through proximity and suggestion.
Instead, I advanced, deliberately entering his territory.
“If you don’t genuinely need my help, I can walk out that entrance right now.” I absolutely meant every word. “Stop wasting both our time with these charades.”
Surprise flickered across his features, authentic for once. For a heartbeat, I glimpsed something raw beneath the carefully constructed persona.