Page 22 of Nocturne

I glare at him, mild but annoyed, which only broadens his grin. It’s whiplash—the sudden shift—but oddly welcome.

“Why don’t you get in your car and start driving?”

I glance at the forest, its branches swaying gently in the fading light. The fiery hues of dusk—orange and pink—fail to pierce the shadows, swallowed whole by the impenetrable darkness.

“Be careful,” I murmur.

Sliding into my car, I catch a glimpse in the rearview mirror. Eero leaps over the fence, vanishing into the thicket.

Let him be safe.The whispered prayer lingers as I drive away, haunted by the stories of those who never returned.

Seven

Ara

Dr. Kent is the living embodiment of academic fraud. A glorified parasite. He thrives on stealing credit from his students, slapping his name on their work, and parading their ideas as his own. Yet, no one does anything about it. Why? Because he has the untouchable shield of being related to the illustrious founding family of this Institute.

I’ve had the misfortune of working under him for a year. That was enough to learn how shameless he can be. After he slapped his name on my research, he took it forward with his team and then pushed me out entirely.

It’s the biggest setback of my career, etched into my memory. And now, as if the universe delights in testing me, he’s back—undoubtedly here to convince me to collaborate, only to steal my work again.

Rumours are swirling about his crumbling team and floundering stem cell research. He’s desperate, grasping for a lifeline to keep the board funding him.

And who better than me, the woman making strides in cancer genetics? But if he thinks I’ll let him exploit me twice, he’s in for a rude awakening.

“That’s a well-articulated explanation, Dr. Sinclair,” Kent says after my lecture, his tone dripping with faux admiration. “Impressive, especially for someone whose primary expertiselies in genetics. Handling cytology with such finesse—it’s quite the surprise.”

The room goes quiet. A few students exchange uneasy glances, while others sigh audibly as they gather their things.

His interruptions are nothing new, but his patronising tone grates on me every single time. I keep my expression neutral, but inside, I bristle.

How is it “impressive” that I understand cytology when my entire research revolves around cellular behaviour? Either his head is as thick as a brick, or he’s just being his usual insufferable self.

I ignore him completely and turn my attention to Kevin, one of my students, who lingers by my desk with an eager smile. Kevin is sharp and hardworking, though he is still finding his confidence. After hearing about the harsh feedback he received from his professor recently, I offered to look over his thesis.

“There’s nothing here that needs changing,” I say warmly, handing his work back to him.

His face lights up. “Really?”

“Yes, you’ve done an excellent job so far. I’d suggest adding growth curve graphs to strengthen your data. And instead of measuring so far apart, try capturing results every hour. It’s a lot of work, but I know you’re capable of it.”

Kevin nods, his enthusiasm shining through. “Thank you, Dr. Sinclair. I’ll do that.”

“I noticed you haven’t included nucleic acid structure images. How do you plan to incorporate them without access to a cryo microscope?” I ask, tilting my head.

His brow furrows slightly. “I’ve been trying to figure that out. Dr. Hale’s funding doesn’t—”

“Hale?” Kent cuts in with a loud scoff. “That woman is barely holding on. The university’s keeping her around out of pity.”

Kevin and I both turn to glare at him. Dr. Hale, despite her limited resources, has more integrity in her little finger than Kent could muster in a lifetime.

“You’re welcome to use the cryo microscope in my lab,” I say, dismissing Kent entirely. “Just let me or Ray know when you need it, and we’ll grant you access.”

Kevin’s eyes widen in shock. “Are you serious, Dr. Sinclair?”

I chuckle softly. His disbelief is endearing. My lab is my sanctuary, a treasure trove of cutting-edge equipment. I don’t often grant access to it, but what kind of professor would I be if I didn’t help my students?

“Yes, I’m serious,” I say with a smile.

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