Chapter 4
Selina
The clipboard slapped me on the thigh, jerking me from my thoughts. Mattie stood across from me, hands holding Specter’s medical chart, dark circles under her eyes.
“You look like you need caffeine more than I do,” I said, handing her the second coffee I’d brought.
Mattie took it with a grateful nod. “This is the normal me since joining SENTINEL. Won’t improve from what I can see, so I stopped looking in the mirror.” She sipped the coffee, grimacing slightly. “Though your taste in coffee might kill me before the job does.”
“Triple espresso is medicinal, not recreational.” I leaned against the wall outside Specter’s room, trying not to stare through the observation window. I’d been waiting for twenty minutes after Mattie’s text summoned me to the medical wing. “What’s his status?”
Mattie flipped open the chart. “That’s why I called you down.
I need your professional perspective because, medically speaking, this makes no sense.
” She tapped the brain scan images clipped to the chart.
“His neurological readings are perfectly normal. No evidence of trauma, no seizure activity, no lingering physical effects. Nothing.”
I straightened. “That’s impossible. I saw the seizure. It was textbook: muscle rigidity, altered consciousness.”
“I’m not saying it didn’t happen. I’m saying there’s no physical evidence it happened.
” Mattie pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, frustration evident in the gesture.
“He experienced the same blackout and temporary amnesia we’d expect, but recovered within hours as if nothing had happened.
And then he was back to being”—her professional tone slipped—"well, annoying.”
I couldn’t help the curve of my mouth that crept onto my face. “I think his annoying personality has nothing to do with his brain issues.”
“So you’ve noticed too.” Mattie laughed, the sound breaking through the sterile hum of the medical wing. “Honestly, I’ve never had a patient wake up from a seizure and immediately critique how bright our lights were.”
“That sounds like him.” I took another sip of coffee, letting the bitter heat ground me.
Mattie’s expression turned serious again. “Selina, I’ve treated trauma patients, gunshot wounds, combat injuries. I understand physical damage. But this”—she gestured to the charts—"isn’t physical. It’s like his brain is rewiring itself in real time, healing on the spot.”
I nodded, processing. “What about potential physical triggers? Hormonal, for example? Was there anything in his body that might have set off the seizure?”
“Nothing in our examination or treatment protocols should have triggered that response.” Mattie studied my face. “Did something happen during your session that could have been a trigger?”
The memory of his lips against mine flashed unbidden, how they’d softened the second before he collapsed, the transition from calculated to something more vulnerable. Heat crept up my neck, and I forced it back down.
“It’s rarely as simple as a single action or word,” I said, deflecting. “His conditioning has multiple fail-safes built-in. More like programmed rewiring, so to speak.”
Mattie nodded, accepting my professional assessment. “Brain trauma, I understand. Psychological conditioning is your territory.”
“Did he say anything about what happened before the seizure?” I asked, careful to keep my tone neutral.
“He claims not to remember. Says everything goes black after you two started talking about his file.” Mattie’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is that consistent with your recollection?”
I maintained eye contact, years of professional control keeping my expression neutral. “We were discussing his conditioning protocols when he began exhibiting symptoms.”
Not technically a lie. We had been discussing his conditioning, right after he’d kissed me and told me I tasted like anger.
“Well, whatever triggered it, the physical event itself was real,” Mattie added, closing the chart. “But the recovery is unprecedented. His neural pathways should show some disruption, but they don’t. It’s like his brain has been…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Augmented, somehow.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen accelerated healing before. Operatives with advanced training can sometimes recover faster than civilians.
But this is different.” Mattie lowered her voice.
“His scans show increased activity in regions that shouldn’t be active at all after a seizure.
It’s like it was rebooting rather than recovering. ”
I thought about what I knew of Oblivion’s conditioning process. “They don’t just erase memories. They rewire neural circuitry completely. It’s possible they built in some kind of recovery protocol.”
“That’s terrifying,” Mattie said. “And not just from a medical perspective. If they can program people to this extent, what else can they do?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out while helping him.” I glanced at the observation window, where I could see Specter sitting up in bed, reading something on a tablet. He looked entirely normal, with no trace of the man who’d collapsed in my arms hours earlier. “Has Dawson been down to see him?”
“Briefly. Seemed more interested in the scans than the patient.”
“I know.” I finished my coffee, crushing the cup perhaps harder than necessary. “Any restrictions on continuing our sessions?”
“None from medical. I’ve cleared him physically.” Mattie’s expression softened with concern. “But as your friend rather than his doctor, I’d suggest caution. Something’s not right about how his brain processes trauma.”
The phrase settled like a stone under my ribs. “That’s exactly what Oblivion does. They don’t just break people, they rebuild them to function through the breaking.”
“Makes you wonder what they were preparing him for.” Mattie checked her watch. “I need to finish rounds. Will you be seeing him today?”
I nodded. “Once you’ve officially discharged him. I want to see if the seizure loosened any memory fragments.”
“Well, if you need backup, you know where to find me.” Mattie squeezed my arm. “And Selina? Whatever happened in that room before the seizure, if you need to talk about it, I’m here for that too.”
Her perceptiveness caught me off guard. “I’m fine. Just doing my job.”
“Right.” Mattie didn’t look convinced. “Your job that has you checking his observation window every thirty seconds while we talk.”
I hadn’t realized I was being so obvious. “Professional concern.”
“Of course.” Mattie’s smile was knowing but kind. “Just remember you’re allowed to have normal human reactions to abnormal situations. Even brilliant psychologists have them occasionally.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I glanced at my watch. “When will he be released back to his quarters?”
“I’ll sign off in an hour or so. Need to receive the results of the last blood tests.”
As Mattie walked away, I found myself alone with the chart. Through the window, I saw Specter look up and catch my stare through the glass. He offered that calculating, practiced smile that had preceded both his kiss and his collapse. It annoyed me.
I pushed open the door to Specter’s room, clipboard tucked under my arm like armor.
He was already watching me, sprawled across the hospital bed with infuriating ease, legs stretched out, one arm behind his head.
The standard-issue hospital gown should have made him look vulnerable.
Instead, he wore it like expensive loungewear, the thin fabric somehow emphasizing rather than diminishing the coiled strength beneath.
His crooked smile appeared before I’d even fully closed the door behind me.
“Doctor Crawford. Came to check if my brain’s scrambled? Or just couldn’t stay away?” The words were light, teasing, but his attention tracked my movements, intent.
I maintained a neutral expression, though irritation prickled under my skin. Hours ago, this man had collapsed in my arms, seizing uncontrollably. Now he lounged like a patient with a minor cold, that same calculating gleam as if nothing had happened.
“I see your condition hasn’t affected your charm,” I added, placing my files on the bedside table with deliberate control. “How are you feeling?”
“Bored.” He shifted, the movement fluid and contained. “Though things are looking up now.”
His attention traveled down my body in a deliberate assessment, lingering just long enough to be inappropriate without being overtly offensive. I recognized the tactic, establishing dominance through subtle sexualization. The same move he’d used yesterday before his collapse.
I refused to react. “Dr. Prieto tells me your scans came back clear.”
He tapped his temple. “Whatever’s broken in here doesn’t show up on their machines. Disappointing, isn’t it? Would be so much easier if they could just… cut it out.”
Something in his tone shifted on those last words, a flicker of genuine bitterness beneath the casual front. I caught it, filed it away.
“This isn’t a game, Specter.” I kept my voice firm, professional. “I need you to take this seriously, or I walk out that door.”
His eyebrow lifted, unimpressed. “Why bother with all this talking? There must be some miracle drug that can fix what’s in my head. Something quicker than your couch sessions.”
I studied him, noting the tension in his jaw despite his relaxed posture. Beneath the dismissive words, I heard what he wasn’t saying: he wanted to be fixed. Now. The impatience wasn’t just arrogance, it was plain desperation.
“There’s nothing so clear-cut,” I countered, my voice taking on an edge of authority. “And pharmaceutical interventions could cause adverse effects, even irreversible ones.”
I stepped closer, refusing to be intimidated by his presence. “Are you willing to risk losing what little of yourself you’ve managed to recover? For the sake of convenience?”
The room went still. His expression flickered, mask slipping for just a moment to reveal something raw underneath. Heat rolled off him.