Page 9 of Her Last Warning
The sandwich arrived, constructed with Instagram-worthy precision.He took mechanical bites, tasting nothing, his attention fixed on the boutique entrance across the street.Each person who passed by was categorized and dismissed: wrong height, wrong hair color, wrong gender.His peripheral vision tracked movement inside the deli, noting without appearing to notice.Two businesswomen discussing quarterly reports.A college student with headphones and a laptop.A young family struggling with a stroller.None of them paid him any attention.And why would they?
This was how the universe worked now, he'd come to understand.It was broken, fundamentally flawed, dealing out miracles and tragedies with cruel randomness.But he could impose order on the chaos.He could correct the mistakes, restore balance to a system that had failed its most basic function.Every life he took was an adjustment, a calibration of cosmic scales.It wasn't about revenge—revenge was petty, personal.This was about restoration, about fixing what was broken in the fabric of reality itself.
The memory of his daughter's smile flickered through his mind.Emma had been so strong through her illness, never complaining, always believing.The day they'd received news of her remission had felt like resurrection.And then, mere hours later, it had all been torn away.The universe had played a cosmic joke, and he was left to make sense of the punchline.He'd spent months trying to understand it, to find meaning in the meaningless, until finally he'd realized: the system itself was broken, and he had been chosen to fix it.
Michelle's recovery mocked everything he'd lost.Her neurological condition had been just as terminal, just as certain.Yet here she was, whole and healthy, while his daughter's ashes sat in an urn on his mantel.The unfairness of it burned in his chest, a constant ember of rage that only cooled when he was planning his next correction.He'd studied her case extensively—the puzzled doctors, the inexplicable improvement, the gradual return to normal function.A miracle, they called it.He called it an aberration.
He took another bite of his sandwich, chewing methodically.Across the street, a flash of honey-blonde hair caught his attention.Michelle and her friend emerged from the boutique, each carrying a bag, their faces bright with the simple joy of a shopping trip.His fingers tightened imperceptibly on his sandwich as he watched them continue down the street, their path taking them past cafés and boutiques, past all the mundane pleasures his daughter would never experience again.
He would follow them until they parted ways.He would note which direction Michelle took home, add it to his mental file of her patterns and habits.Soon, he would correct the universe's mistake.It wasn't personal, not really.Michelle seemed like a nice enough person.But the balance had to be restored, and she was part of the equation that needed solving.
He finished his sandwich, wiped his mouth with mechanical precision, and disposed of his trash.As he stepped back onto the street, he became just another figure in the urban landscape, unremarkable and unseen.The hood of his sweatshirt caught another breeze, and he adjusted it with practiced casualness as he hurried forward to once again walk in Michelle’s wake.
The universe might be broken, but he would fix it one correction at a time.And Rachel Gift being erased from it would be the first step.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The glass doors of Yorke and Feinman Cardiologists reflected the afternoon sun, casting prismatic shadows across Rachel's face as she and Novak stepped inside.The lobby struck a careful balance—modern without being cold, welcoming without trying too hard.Pale oak panels lined the curved reception desk where three receptionists worked with quiet efficiency.The waiting area spread out before them, dotted with ergonomic chairs in muted blues and grays, arranged in small conversational clusters rather than the usual rigid rows.Abstract art in calming shades adorned the walls.
Rachel approached the leftmost desk, her badge already palmed discretely in her hand.A middle-aged receptionist greeted them."We need to speak with Dr.Yorke," she said, letting the badge catch the light just enough for the receptionist to notice.Her stomach tightened involuntarily at the familiar scent of antiseptic that seemed to permeate all medical facilities, no matter how upscale…no matter what sort of air freshener or plug-in was used in the lobby.
The woman—her nameplate read Angela—peered at them over rectangular frames, her carefully manicured nails pausing over her keyboard."Do you have an appointment?"
"No appointment," Novak cut in smoothly, his tone professional but firm."But we do need to speak with him about a potentially sensitive and timely matter."
Rachel caught the flicker of doubt crossing Angela's face and added, "And we're not leaving here until we can speak with him.If he's currently with a patient, we can wait."She maintained steady eye contact, letting Angela see the determination behind her words.
"One second."Irritation crept into Angela's voice as she lifted her phone, her free hand adjusting her headset with practiced precision.
Rachel tuned out the quiet conversation behind the desk, her attention drawn to the waiting room despite herself.Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the space in a way that should have been comforting.Instead, it stirred something deep within her—memories she thought she'd buried.
Rachel remembered countless hours spent in chairs just like these, pretending to read magazines while her head throbbed and her vision sometimes doubled.The way time seemed to stretch and compress, each tick of the wall clock a reminder that her tumor was growing, spreading, stealing precious moments.She remembered the faces of other patients—some hopeful, some resigned, all carrying their own private battles behind carefully maintained expressions.
A particular memory surfaced: the day she'd nearly collapsed in a waiting room much like this one, her determination to keep working finally betrayed by her failing body.The concerned looks, the whispers, the humiliation of weakness when she'd spent her whole career projecting strength.The way her hands had trembled as she tried to fill out yet another medical form, her vision blurring until the letters swam before her eyes.The kind nurse who'd noticed her struggle and quietly helped her complete the paperwork, preserving what dignity she could.
The soft music playing overhead—the same bland, inoffensive instrumental pieces that seemed to play in every medical facility—triggered another flash: the moment she'd received her first piece of good news after months of deterioration.The same generic music had been playing then, and now she couldn't hear similar tunes without being transported back to that moment of desperate hope.
"Agents?"The receptionist’s voice cut through the memories."Dr.Yorke is with a patient right now, but you can wait in his office.Second floor, Room 225.He should be with you in about ten or fifteen minutes."
Rachel nodded, grateful for the interruption of her darkening thoughts.She and Novak made their way to the elevator.It was located to the right, away from the sunlight and windows; it instantly felt colder but the soft chime was a welcome return to the present.As they rode up, she noticed Novak watching her with barely concealed concern.
"You okay?"he asked quietly.
"Fine," she replied, perhaps too quickly."Just...memories."
He nodded, understanding enough not to press further.The elevator doors opened to a hallway lined with identical doors, each bearing nameplates in brushed silver.They found 225 easily enough, and Rachel was surprised to find it unlocked even though they’d been invited to enter.
Dr.Yorke's office defied expectations.Rather than the austere space Rachel had anticipated, the room felt almost whimsical.Light blue walls hosted the expected medical degrees and certifications, but they shared space with vintage Lord of the Rings movie posters.The expected medical texts occupied only half of the built-in bookshelf; the rest contained what appeared to be a carefully curated collection of fantasy novels and science fiction, their spines well-worn from repeated reading.Several featured elaborate bookmarks, suggesting current reading projects.
Family photos lined one shelf—Yorke with what appeared to be his wife and two teenage children, all of them grinning in hiking gear against a backdrop of mountain peaks.In another photo, the same family posed on a beach, their faces sun-kissed and happy.A detailed model of the Enterprise-D hung from nearly invisible fishing line in one corner, casting intricate shadows on the wall.On his desk, a Gandalf bobblehead nodded sagely beside a stack of medical journals and what appeared to be a half-completed New York Times crossword puzzle.
"Well," Novak said as they settled into the chairs facing the desk, "I guess even cardiologists need their escapes."
Rachel ran her fingers along the arm of her chair, noting the quality of the leather."He's done well for himself, considering his history.Co-partner in his own practice—that's quite a comeback from his earlier reputation issues."
"Those misdiagnosis allegations?"Novak leaned back, the chair creaking slightly."Must have been, what, eight years ago?"
"Seven.Three patients claimed he'd given them terminal diagnoses that proved incorrect.Nearly lost his license over it."Rachel's eyes traced the degrees on the wall."He's either exceptionally good at damage control, or he learned from his mistakes."
