Page 154 of Fractured Devotion
I think of the way he whimpered without meaning to and the way he held still for me, like he wanted to be unraveled.
That’s what power is. Not brute force. Not even control.
It’s being the one who decides when to give softness. When to withhold.
I rewrite the final fail-safe in the Heretic Loop with that clarity in mind.
This isn’t about revenge. Not really. It’s about making sure no one else ends up twisted into someone’s design like I was. Like Kade was. Like Harper.
A soft knock on the outer door breaks my focus. I glance at the time.
I already know who it is.
I unlock the door.
Mara steps in, nervous. “Dr. Varon, the early trauma logs you asked about—project legacy files—they’re still corrupted. But Reyes flagged a few alternative entry points. He said he’ll forward them to you directly.”
I nod, my voice even when I say, “Tell him to use channel delta. And thank you.”
She hesitates. Her eyes flick to the chair where Kade’s jacket now rests—dark, tailored, and unmistakably not mine. It’s the kind of cut no one else in this building wears. Maybe she recognizes it from the few times she’s seen Kade in passing, or maybe it’s just intuition. Her gaze lingers just long enough to suggest a thought forming, or a rumor waiting to be born.
Her mouth opens, then closes.
I meet her gaze. “Was there anything else?”
She shakes her head, backing out. “No, Doctor.”
The door closes.
I exhale.
Let them guess.
Let them whisper.
Everything I need is almost in place.
Once the door clicks shut, I let the silence settle again.
It’s not the kind that comforts. It’s the kind that wraps around your spine and whispers that time is running short.
I slide the jacket off the chair, fold it neatly, and place it in the cabinet beside the door. Not to hide it, just to contain what it might invite.
Then, I return to the desk, my eyes scanning lines of code like a prayer. My fingers move without hesitation now. There’s no trembling. No question.
The Heretic Loop isn’t just a system override anymore.
It’s a reckoning.
Every parameter I define is a lit match. Every cycle I rewrite is a confession. I’m no longer editing the program toprotect patients or shield the public. I’m designing it to rupture the mask this institution wears. To pull back the veil, teeth and all.
My hand hovers over the final sequence key.
But I don’t press it yet.
It’s not because I’m unsure. I’m past that. It’s because this—this exact second—is the last breath before impact. The last moment when I currently still have the illusion of being the version of myself I was yesterday.
Once this goes live, there’s no returning to ignorance. Not for me. Not for them.
