Page 12 of Fractured Devotion
When I reach the access panel beneath the trauma diagnostics wing, I test a pulse scanner. It fails.
Plan B.
I slot in an override key and input Rourke’s root cipher. The panel hisses open. Inside, I find untouched storage, files, backup drives, and an old terminal locked behind encryption older than the clinic’s foundation itself.
I drag a stool closer, connect my tablet, and begin extraction.
My hands don’t tremble. Not even a little.
Because I’m finally beneath the skin of this place.
And I’m not leaving until I find what lives under hers.
Chapter 5 – Alec - Things Left Unsaid
This morning starts with blood.
Corporal Enoch Rallis, the patient I’m shadowing in the trauma ward, spirals during a cognitive loop calibration. His eyes go glassy, his body stiffens, and then—snap—he surges forward like a coiled wire. His fist slams into the observation panel, and the glass fractures with a sharp, cracking sound that echoes down the sterile corridor.
I react without thinking. Years spent in field hospitals kick in. I’m on him before he throws a second punch. He’s stronger than he looks, his muscles taut with panic and strength. The air reeks of bleach and raw fear. I grip him tight, whispering low reassurances and trying to ground him. He thrashes beneath me, his eyes wild and lost in whatever memory he’s trapped in.
Orderlies storm in, rushing to help. But I stay down with him until the sedative stills his trembling frame, and his breathing evens out.
Later, in the debrief room, I scrawl a note across a fresh report sheet: “Develop non-invasive trauma de-escalation protocols.” Everything here revolves around neural redirection and suppression. But that’s not always enough. Sometimes, what they need isn’t a machine. It’s a hand. A voice. Something human.
My knuckles are still stained with blood when I get the summons. Dr. Felix Rourke wants to see me.
His office is soundless and intimidatingly neat. A single brass pen sits beside a mug that steams like it’s been waiting for hours. He doesn’t look up right away. He just gestures for me to sit.
“I hear there was trouble in the ward.”
“Corporal Rallis had a spike. Broke containment.”
“Ah. Unfortunate,” he says, finally meeting my gaze. “Though not entirely unexpected.”
We sit across from each other, the air between us dense. There’s something about Rourke that feels too composed. Like everything he does is choreographed for effect.
“You’ve seen Miramont’s methods before, Alec,” he says, folding his hands. “You know how the system works, even when the edges bleed.”
I nod. “Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t make it better.”
He smiles, but it’s all teeth. “Progress demands discomfort. Don’t let compassion muddle your judgment.”
“You think compassion is a weakness?”
“No. I think idealism is a luxury,” he replies smoothly. “One that your former colleague—Dr. Varon—couldn’t afford either. Her files… well, let’s just say the public versions are much easier to digest.”
I stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sips from his mug, unfazed. “Just that brilliance often walks a razor’s edge. Sometimes, we redact truths to protect the minds that would break under their weight.”
His words cling to me like the coppery smell of blood
He knows something. About her. About what they’ve hidden.
And I’m not walking away until I uncover it.
Dr. Rourke clears his throat as if to dismiss me. “We’ll be in touch,” he says with a finality that borders on warning.
