Page 14 of Fractured Devotion
I finish my tea in a single swallow and head inside. My apartment is minimal, with concrete walls, monochrome furniture, and one half-dead ficus I keep forgetting to water. It sits by the window like a neglected thought. I pull on a tailored coat, swipe my keycard from the dish, and lock the door behind me. The walk to the clinic takes less than five minutes. The building looms ahead, glass panels reflecting a pale sky, steel veins cutting across its facade like surgical incisions.
Inside, I make my way to the cognitive lab, nodding to a few early staffers who know better than to engage. The hall smells heavily of disinfectant, and the click of my heels echoes off the polished floors. My office is just as I left it: pristine, untouched, and silent.
I don’t sit immediately. Instead, I hover at the edge of the room, staring at the screensavers flickering on the wall monitors. My reflection appears briefly—a ghost in a sterile landscape.
Mara buzzes in. “Good morning, Dr. Varon. The new interns are assembling in the observation room.”
I nod, shifting my stance. “Has security confirmed their clearance files yet? That clearance should’ve come through days ago.”
“Yes, ma’am. I triple-checked. One of them, Harper DuVall, was top of her class at Adlington. Very eager.”
Of course she is.
I dismiss Mara with a nod and make my way to the observation room.
The interns stand in a loose half-circle, some stiff with nerves, others already trying to look important. I watch them for a moment through the one-way glass before entering. My presence cuts through the low buzz of conversation, and they turn, their faces lifting, eyes wide.
“You’re here to learn,” I begin, my voice low and measured. “This facility operates on precision. We do not tolerate ego, hesitation, or unauthorized deviation from protocol. If you’re not capable of following those three simple rules, leave now.”
Silence.
They stay.
My gaze finds Harper. She doesn’t flinch under my stare. Her eyes are too wide, too bright, and too full of something dangerous: admiration. She reminds me of myself, years ago, before I learned to wear silence like a mask..
“Dr. Varon,” she says, her voice soft, “It’s an honor to be working under you.”
I blink once. “We’ll see if that remains true.”
A faint shuffle from behind Harper draws my attention to the others—four of them in total. A lanky boy with sunken cheeks and ink-stained fingertips clears his throat.
“I’m Keiran Blight,” he offers quickly. “Excited to be here. Really.” His voice cracks mid-sentence, and he winces.
Next to him, a girl with auburn curls and sharp cheekbones smiles with the kind of confidence only the untested have. “Nova Chantel. I’ve reviewed all your published neural displacement theories, Dr. Varon. Twice.”
“Once would have sufficed,” I reply, my expression unreadable.
The final intern—a short, broad-shouldered individual in oversized glasses—nods silently. They don’t offer a name, just clench their jaw like this moment means more than they’ll admit.
“Shadow Mara until otherwise directed,” I say, letting the weight of my gaze sweep over all of them. “And stay out of restricted corridors. Especially Sublevel C.”
They murmur acknowledgments, shifting in place like they’ve just realized what they’ve signed up for.
“Dismissed,” I say, turning on my heel. The room exhales behind me, but I don’t look back.
I exit the briefing room and head down the hall, past the sterilized stretch of corridor that hums with artificial calm. The lights above hum faintly, a syncopated rhythm I’ve long stopped noticing. As I near the observation wing, I inhale slowly, centering myself for what’s next. Time to dive into the mess of minds waiting on the other side of the glass. I reach the sealed chamber doors and swipe my access card. They hiss open. The day begins.
In the observation chamber, I guide Subject 17 through another round of emotional recall drills. The room is darkened except for the monitor glow, casting a clinical sheen on every movement.
“Focus on the image,” I instruct him, my gaze locked on his micro-expressions through the observation glass. “Tell me what it brings up for you.”
The boy’s jaw trembles. His lips part, then close again. He blinks, slowly.
“What did he whisper in your closet?” he mutters, his voice barely audible.
The words knock the breath from my lungs.
My hand freezes mid-note. I stare at him, unsure if I actually heard what I think I did. My voice falters. “Repeat that?”
