Ellie #2
For the next hour, she systematically dismantles my professional boundaries, asking increasingly personal questions about Killian. Each honest answer earns a small comfort, a loosened restraint, a sip of water, an adjustment to the blinding light.
Each evasion brings a tightening of straps, making indentations on my already bruised skin, or a decrease in the room's already frigid temperature.
By the time she calls for a break, I'm shivering uncontrollably, as much from emotional exposure as from the cold.
"You're doing well," Grace says, checking the monitors. "Much better than most subjects at this stage."
"Is that supposed to be comforting?" I manage through chattering teeth.
"It's merely an observation." She drapes a thin blanket over me. Not enough for warmth, but enough to remind me that comfort exists at her discretion. "We'll continue after I review this morning's data."
The door closes behind her and Reed, leaving me alone with the steady beep of monitoring equipment. I test my restraints, finding them exactly tight enough to prevent escape without cutting off circulation.
She's inside my head already. Whatever else Grace is, she is exceptionally good at her job.
I close my eyes, retreating into my training.
This is textbook psychological manipulation, controlled environment, reward/punishment conditioning, physiological monitoring to bypass conscious defenses.
I can identify every technique she employs, yet knowing the mechanism doesn't make me immune to its effects.
The door opens again. Grace returns with a tablet and a small case. Reed positions himself back behind me.
"I'd like to discuss your father now, Ellie."
My body tenses involuntarily. Grace notes my reaction with interest.
"Gregory Hart was brilliant, wasn't he? His work on neurological response patterns in trauma subjects was groundbreaking."
"How do you know about my father's work?"
Grace arranges instruments on her tray, not looking at me. "We moved in similar professional circles. His research on trauma recovery intersected with certain... interests of The Order."
The detachment in her voice sends shivers through me that have nothing to do with the room's temperature.
"My father was an academic researcher. His work was published openly."
"His published work, certainly." Grace's smile is thin. "But we both know academics often have unpublished lines of inquiry. Projects too controversial for peer review."
"No." But even as I deny it, memories bubble up like corpses from deep water. My father disappearing for days without explanation. Late-night phone calls where his voice dropped to a whisper. Documents he’d shove into drawers when I walked into his study.
Grace watches the monitors as my heart rate spikes. "Your body recognizes truth even when your mind rejects it."
She opens her case, removing a syringe filled with clear liquid. "This is a mild anxiolytic combined with a drug that enhances memory retrieval. It won't harm you, but it will make our conversation more productive."
"I don't consent to this."
"Your consent isn't required, Ellie." She swabs my arm with alcohol. "But I find subjects respond better when they understand the process."
The needle slides beneath my skin without so much as a sting. Within seconds, a peculiar warmth spreads through my veins, relaxing my muscles while leaving my mind unsettlingly clear.
"There," Grace announces, disposing of the syringe. "Now we can have an honest conversation about Killian and your father's work."
The drug makes it difficult to maintain my emotional walls. My thoughts become speech before I can think twice. "What does Killian have to do with my father's research?"
Grace adjusts her position, leaning closer. "Your father's research didn't just embarrass the Order, Ellie. It threatened their operational security at the highest level."
"That's impossible... my father studied trauma response in abuse survivors." I blink hard, trying to focus.
"Your father discovered patterns among trauma patients that traced back to The Order." Grace shows photos of my father with strangers and redacted documents. "He connected the dots leading back to them."
Despite the drug, I resist. "Speculation."
"We tracked his communications. He started legitimately but dug deeper, building evidence against powerful people. That became a sticking point, so arrangements were made."
"He died of a heart attack at a charity gala." The words come out slurred.
"A precisely engineered heart attack." Grace swipes through toxicology reports and medical examiner notes, with highlighted inconsistencies. "The Order's methods are sophisticated. Their specialty is deaths that appear natural but aren't."
“You’re saying... the Order murdered...” I can’t finish the sentence. I can’t make my mouth form the words.
“They eliminate threats, Ellie. Your father became one.” Her clinical tone makes the statement all the more horrifying.
“And Killian?” My voice cracks on his name. The drug amplifies everything. Fear becomes terror. Confusion becomes certainty that I’ve been played. The need to understand claws at my chest like something living. It presses against my sternum and won't let go.
“Was he... did he...”
Grace studies me for a moment before answering. “He wasn’t directly involved in your father’s death, if that’s what you’re asking. But he was working with the Order at that time, handling other matters. His appearance in your life now, however, that is no coincidence.”
“Not possible.” I’m shaking my head, but the movement makes the room spin. Walls and ceiling trade places until I have to close my eyes against the nausea. “He was assigned... court system... random.”
Grace’s laugh holds no humor. “The Order has infiltrated every level of government. Court-mandated therapy assignments are trivial to manipulate.”
Tears stream down my face. I can’t stop them. The drug stripped away every defense, every wall I’d built. Every memory rearranges itself. Killian’s protectiveness, his insistence on keeping me safe, his reluctance to discuss his past. Was it all guilt? All manipulation?
“The Order has been watching you. They believe your father left his research with you, information that could damage their operations.” Grace’s voice hardens.
“Killian may have left that life behind, but his former associates haven’t forgotten who you are.
Have you wondered why they targeted you in the first place? Why you needed protection?”
“I don’t have...” The words won’t come. “Anything. I don’t...”