Chapter 10
Selina
The words just hung between us.
“What do you mean?” I kept my voice steady, even though cold was creeping up my spine. “Specter, talk to me.”
His gaze remained unfocused, staring at something way past our safehouse walls.
“There were…” The words emerged hollow. “A table. White tablecloth. Donuts in a circle. Small hands reaching, too many small hands.” His breathing quickened, turned shallow. “A woman with dark hair. Can’t see her face.”
I moved nearer. Medical instinct beat out caution. “Stay with me. Ground yourself.”
“Blood.” The word ripped out. “So much blood. On the floor. The walls. The donuts. My fingers.” He shook hard. “Screams, then nothing. Just sticky on my skin.”
“Specter!”
“I killed them.” He choked out the admission. “Little bodies. Eight or nine years old.”
I reached for his arm. He jerked back.
“No! Don’t touch me.” His eyes finally focused on me, wild. “I can still feel it. The knife. The way the blade caught on bone. They were children.”
My stomach twisted. The horror of what he described fought with my need to pull him back. “Focus on my voice. You’re here with me, in Munich. Whatever happened…”
A strangled sound tore free from him. He clutched his temples. Pain ripped through him. This wasn’t just memory. Something in his conditioning had triggered.
“Specter!” I lunged forward as his knees gave out.
He turned rigid under my grip, muscles locked tight. I barely managed to guide him down. The seizure hit hard, his back arching, limbs jerking.
“I’m here—” My voice rose as I shoved the coffee table aside. “Stay with me!”
Foam appeared at his mouth, pupils rolling back. The seizure only lasted seconds, but each one felt endless. I counted out loud, ready for emergency measures.
Then, his body went stilled.
“Specter?” I touched his face. “Can you hear me?”
Gray irises appeared.
I recoiled.
The man looking at me wasn’t Specter. Those gray depths that had shown warmth, pain, humor, all empty now. Flat. I’d seen clinical detachment, but this was different. This was nothing.
He rose from the floor like a machine. No confusion, no disorientation. Just coming online.
“Specter?” The name trembled out.
His head tilted slightly, sizing me up. Nothing showed recognition. His posture had changed completely: spine straight, squared shoulders, palms loose and ready. This wasn’t the man who’d kissed me, who’d talked about memories worth pain to recover.
This was Oblivion’s creation stripped of everything human. And I had a front row seat.
I backed away slowly, heart pounding. “Specter, it’s Selina. You know me.”
No response. Just that clinical assessment, as if I were a target.
“You’re having a conditioning response.” I tried to sound level. “The memory triggered your programming.”
He tracked my movement. I’d read files on operatives like him, studied the psychology of their conditioning. But reading about it hadn’t prepared me for the void staring back, the complete erasure of the person I’d started caring for.
My back hit the wall. Nowhere left to go.
“Your name is Specter.” Authority filled my voice. “You’re in a safehouse in Munich. We escaped from SENTINEL together after Oblivion attacked.”
Something flickered in those empty depths, not recognition, but calculation. When he spoke, each word came out flat, no inflection.
“Identity: JD-24601. Designation: Specter.” The words sounded robotic. “Mission parameters undefined. Awaiting directive.”
My breath caught. This was worse than I’d thought. The conditioning had fully activated, reducing him to function and protocol.
“Look at me. Focus on my face. Remember who I am.”
He narrowed his focus. “Unknown entity. Potential handler status: unconfirmed.” His advance was smooth, predatory. “State authorization code.”
“I don’t have an authorization code. I’m Dr. Selina Crawford. I’ve been helping you recover memories.”
“Unauthorized personnel.” Still emotionless, but his stance shifted, weight balanced, ready. Ready to attack. “Security protocol initiated.”
“No.” I raised both palms slowly. “Specter, listen. This isn’t you. This is conditioning.”
He took another step, gaze locked on mine. Nothing there, no recognition, no conflict, no humanity. Just Oblivion’s perfect weapon.
“Please,” I whispered. “Remember the pastry. Remember the kiss. Remember who you are.”
His arm shot forward, fast, closing around my throat. Not crushing yet. Just securing, like a predator playing before the kill.
“Specter.” The name wheezed out. “This isn’t you.”
Medical training kicked in. His thumb sat right against my carotid. One squeeze and I’d be out in seconds. That empty stare remained, studying my reactions like machine readings.
“Your conditioning activated.” I kept steady despite his fingers. “You had a memory about children, then a seizure.”
Nothing registered.
“Security breach contained.” Mechanical precision. “Awaiting extraction protocol.”
“The pastry triggered it. Purple filling. You took it from my fingers. You kissed me yesterday.”
His grip tightened a bit. My vision darkened at the edges.
“Unauthorized personnel attempting psychological manipulation.” No warmth entered the mechanical tone. “Countermeasures authorized.”
My lungs burned. I had seconds. Fighting wasn’t an option; he had seventy pounds on me, all combat muscle. His programming had made him a killing machine, and I was just a target.
“Listen.” The words forced past constriction. “You told me about the Farm, the Chair. You’re fighting this. You want your memories!”
Something tiny flickered in those depths, maybe confusion. A crack in the programming. Gone so fast I might’ve imagined it.
The pressure increased. Black spots danced.
Right then, with death at my throat, training failed me. This wasn’t a patient having an episode. This was a weapon, and I was running out of air.
“Code verification failed.” His head tilted. “Eliminating security risk.”
My mind recognized what was happening: I was watching the man I cared for disappear behind programming. The vulnerability, humor, humanity, all gone. Replaced by this shell. Not Specter. Just protocols.
Desperate, I made a choice that broke every professional boundary.
I raised my palm slowly, each movement deliberate. He tracked it, but didn’t react beyond adjusting his stance. My fingers shook as I brought them toward his face.
The grip remained firm, but he didn’t stop me. Maybe the gesture was too far outside threat parameters.
Skin touched cheek. Warm flesh, cold purpose.
“I know you’re in there.” My vision blurred with tears. “This isn’t who you are.”
Three heartbeats. Nothing changed. Fingers still locked on my windpipe.
Then, something. A tiny disturbance in that empty gaze. Static in a signal.
The grip loosened just enough. I dragged in air.
I kept contact on his cheek. “You have fought this before. You can again.”
Another flicker crossed his face. The pressure trembled against my skin, force changing like two commands fighting for control.
“System malfunction.” Less mechanical now.
“No.” My voice grew stronger. “Not malfunction. You are breaking through.”
He released. I slumped against the wall, gasping. But he didn’t move away. Standing frozen, caught in a loop without parameters.
Then movement. He crossed to the room’s center. Each step still mechanical, spine rigid. He stopped by the bed, facing away.
I rubbed my neck, mind racing. He hadn’t killed me when protocol demanded it. Something had interrupted: my touch, my words, or the memory fighting programming.
“Specter?”
No response. Motionless, like a powered-down machine.
Then action. Fluid, purposeful, not like Specter’s controlled human movements. This was an operative executing protocol. He went straight to the balcony door and yanked it open.
Cold air rushed in, snow swirling as he stepped out. The winter bite chilled my skin, but I couldn’t move. Fingers pressed where his had been.
What came next made no sense. He positioned himself at the concrete wall dividing balconies. Without hesitation, he drove his fist into the brick.
The sound was dull, sick.
He did it again. Again.
Each strike hit the same spot with the same force. Not rage, but precision. Blood appeared on knuckles, smeared the concrete in even arcs. That expression remained empty, pain just data.
I remained against the wall, lungs burning. Medical training said to stop him before he shattered bones. Survival said to keep back.
The rhythm continued. One. Two. Three. Four. Same sound, same crimson spray, until…
A sound escaped him. Not quite pain, not confusion. Something human breaking through.
His next strike faltered. He stared at the damage like seeing it new. The vacant expression flickered, precision giving way to awareness.
I pushed off the wall, drawn to the balcony despite myself. Winter stung my face as awareness returned to him piece by piece. The perfect posture crumbled first, shoulders slumping. Then came realization as he stumbled back against the railing, staring at what he’d done with growing horror.
I saw the moment memory flooded back, who he was, what had just happened. His eyes lifted to my face, then dropped to where I still held the tender skin. Color drained from him. He backed to the railing, snow swirling, breathing ragged.
This wasn’t the operative or even the controlled survivor. This was Specter stripped bare, realizing what his conditioning almost made him do to me.
I hesitated at the threshold. Fear mixed with assessment. Was it really him? Or another layer to lower my guard?
“Specter?”
I stepped onto the balcony, frigid air sharp in my lungs. Snow hit my shoulders as I crossed over, each step ignoring the instinct screaming to run. My neck throbbed. Logic said to lock myself in the bathroom, call extraction. Instead, I moved toward him.