Chapter 4 #2
“That’s assuming there’s anything worth recovering,” he added finally, voice lower.
“I think we both know there is,” I replied. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have surrendered to SENTINEL in the first place.”
He narrowed his gaze, assessing me with renewed interest. “You think you have me figured out.”
“Not even close,” I admitted. “But I recognize desperation and determination when I see it.”
I moved to the chair beside his bed, sitting down to level our power dynamic. His focus followed me, measuring.
“Tell me about the seizure,” I asked.
“Nothing to tell. One minute I was”—his mouth curved slightly—"kissing you. The next, waking up here with people shining lights in my face.”
“You don’t remember anything that happened during the episode?”
He shrugged, the movement too deliberately casual. “Blackness. Then hospital ceiling tiles.”
I made a note in his file, conscious of his attention on my hands. “And how many episodes like this have you experienced before?”
“No clue. Apart from yesterday and today.”
“We need to identify the cause and press there. We might get answers, even a breakthrough. It could be significant.”
He held my stare, challenge written there. “Why? So SENTINEL can build a better cage? Or so you can publish a paper on broken assassins?”
I set my clipboard down, leaning forward slightly. “So I can help you. Which is what you claimed to want.”
“What I want,” he said, his tone dropping, edged with threat, “and what I need aren’t necessarily the same thing.”
“And what do you need?”
His tongue darted out to wet his lips, a calculated gesture designed to draw my attention to his mouth. I refused to give him the satisfaction, keeping my focus locked on his.
“Control,” he said finally. “Everything they took: memories, identity, autonomy. It all comes down to control. And then bringing them down.”
For the first time, I sensed genuine honesty in his words, though the admission was clearly tactical. Give me something real to keep me engaged.
“So, tell me about the first time you felt their programming slipping,” I pressed. “When did it happen? What set it off?”
He shifted, muscles tensing beneath the thin hospital gown.
“During what they called ‘maintenance conditioning.’ Standard procedure, chemical cocktail, neural triggers, the usual mindfuck.” His casual tone belied the horror of what he described. “Then something… broke.”
“Broke how?”
“Like glass shattering inside my skull.” His hand clenched into a fist on the sheet.
“They were using the standard memory suppression protocol, but instead of wiping clean, it was like… someone flipped a switch. Memories started flooding back, random fragments, nothing coherent. My handler thought I was faking, so they didn’t think anything had changed. ”
I leaned forward, truly intrigued now. “What did they do?”
“They adjusted the protocol. Called it ‘neural pathway resistance.’ Treated me like a lab rat that had developed immunity to poison.” His smile was sharp enough to cut. “That’s when I became interesting to them. A case study in conditioning failure.”
“And the second one?”
He met my stare, something unreadable flickering deep. “Soon after. During an assignment.”
“What set it off?”
His jaw tightened. “A name. Someone called me something, not Specter, not my operational designation.”
The revelation sent a thrill of professional excitement through me. “They used your real name?”
“Not sure it was my real name,” he admitted. “But it… resonated. Like a tuning fork hitting the right frequency. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground, my head splitting open from the inside.”
“And you completed the assignment anyway,” I said.
His silence was answer enough.
“That level of programming, continuing a mission through neurological collapse, is extraordinary,” I added, unable to keep the professional interest from my voice.
“Glad I could impress you,” he said dryly.
“It’s not about being impressed. It’s about understanding the depth of what was done to you.” I leaned back, studying him. “Your brain is literally at war with itself. Part of you is fighting to remember, while the programming works to maintain control.”
He went still, the kind of stillness that only came with specialized training. “And which side are you on, Doctor?”
“Whichever part is actually you.”
His teasing expression vanished, replaced by something raw and genuine. “I’ve lost too much to screw it up now,” he admitted, voice stripped of its usual sardonic tone.
The sudden honesty created a different kind of charge between us, more dangerous than antagonism. I realized I’d finally broken through his first line of defense, but what lay beneath might be harder to face.
Silence filled the room as he stared at the wall, pondering so long that I feared he was shutting down completely. His jaw worked, fingers tightening against the bedsheet, the closest thing to visible struggle I’d seen from him.
I waited, resisting the urge to fill the silence. This moment felt crucial, a tipping point in his trust.
Finally, he met my gaze with startling clarity. “I’ll do it your way. No more faking.”
The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. It shouldn’t have worked, this sudden capitulation after so much resistance, yet something in his expression convinced me this wasn’t another manipulation. Or at least, not entirely.
“Thank you,” I said, simply, allowing myself a moment of professional satisfaction.
His mouth curved into that familiar half-smile, but it didn’t reach. “Besides, Doctor, I’m finding our sessions more… stimulating than expected.”
There it was, the challenge back, but now layered with something genuine underneath. The combination was more potent than either alone.
“Then let’s be clear about the parameters going forward,” I continued, refusing to rise to his bait. “No more staged episodes. No more physical contact. If we’re going to make progress, we need boundaries.”
“Boundaries.” He tested the word like an unfamiliar weapon. “Like the one you crossed when you kissed me back?”
Heat crawled up my neck. “That was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” His words were smooth, edged with threat.
I stood, gathering my files. “Our next session is tomorrow at ten. We’ll be working with cognitive memory retrieval techniques. I suggest you rest and prepare yourself.”
He caught my wrist as I turned to leave, his grip exact like before, firm enough to stop me, gentle enough not to hurt. The contact lit up my arm in a way that had nothing to do with clinical interest.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over my pulse point. “No more faking anything. But that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how your body responded to mine. How your pulse quickened, just like it’s doing now.”
I pulled my arm free, fighting to maintain professional composure. “That’s enough.”
“Is it?” His gaze held mine, searching. “You’re the only person who’s seen me, the real me, not just the weapon they made. That makes you dangerous, Selina.”
My first name in his mouth felt more intimate than his touch had been.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Specter,” I said, voice steadier than I felt.
His smile was knowing, patient. “You know that’s not my name. Not my real one. I can’t wait until you dig through the broken pieces and find the truth. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
He leaned back against the pillows, his eyes never leaving mine. “Find it,” he said softly.
Against my better judgment, he made me smile—dry and brief. “Let’s start at the beginning and see what we can get.”
“When I kissed you, something happened. Isn’t that a good sign?”
My hand tightened on the doorknob. “That’s not an appropriate therapeutic technique.”
“Isn’t it?” His gaze held mine. “What if physical contact bypasses the cognitive blocks? What if…”
“We’re done for today,” I cut him off, but the seed was planted. What if he was right? What if his episodes weren’t random but triggered by specific stimuli, including our physical contact?
“Think about it, Doctor,” he added with a barely contained smile. “What matters more, your professional boundaries or getting your patient back his mind?”
I didn’t answer, pulling the door closed behind me with a decisive click. In the hallway, I leaned against the wall, breathing slow and deep to center myself.
The problem wasn’t that I believed him. The problem was that part of me wondered if he might be right.