Page 21 of Fractured Devotion
The apartment is exactly as I left it three days ago. Pristine, bare, and impersonal. The kitchenette hums faintly, and the cot-style bed sits stiff in its corner, untouched. No sign of intrusion.
There’s no misaligned chair, no smudged screen. Still, I scan it with the precision of a surgeon.
Then I notice it. It’s just a detail, but it’s enough.
The side drawer is open by half an inch. It probably just shifted when I opened it last time and didn’t close it properly.
The contents—neuromapping pens, lens covers, and a small encrypted USB—are still there, neat and aligned, just as I remember. But I still pause longer than I should, trying to recall if the USB has always been at that angle. Maybe it has. Maybe I’m just tired.
The mind fills in gaps when it lacks sleep, and mine has been running on empty for too long.
I rise slowly, shut the drawer, and sit on the edge of the bed.
I’m not afraid. Not angry.
Calculated.
It leaves a whisper of discomfort, but not enough to sound the alarms. Just a prickling at the edge of my nerves, a signal that I might have missed something.
I won’t call it suspicion. Not yet. Just curiosity, measured and calm. The kind that earns answers only if you let it sit long enough without forcing the shape of them.
I boot up my tablet and check the backup logs. Nothing jumps out. No breaches, no silent flags. A string of maintenance pings shows up, timestamped between midnight and 4 a.m. Routine enough.
But I study the patterns anyway, telling myself it’s just a professional habit, not paranoia.
I close the tablet.
Still, a part of me itches. It’s a subtle flicker, like standing too close to an invisible pulse. I tuck the tablet away and stand.
Maybe I just need sleep. Or maybe I need a distraction. Something with a sharper focus than shadows and half-open drawers.
By the time I return to the fifth floor, the clinic is in full motion. Carts clatter down corridors, and interns murmur nervously behind frosted glass. I slip into the flow easily, my shoulders squared, my pace efficient. No one stops me. No one questions my presence.
Inside the diagnostics lab, Harper is already there, her coat too crisp, her hands too eager. She looks up like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t, even though her screen only shows an open patient file.
“You’re early,” she says too brightly.
“So are you.”
She laughs nervously and slides her chair back. “Thought I’d get ahead on the Roth samples. Dr. Rennick wants them cleaned up before noon.”
I nod and move past her to my terminal. It logs me in this time without a hitch. No restriction, no friction. Like nothing ever happened.
Harper lingers behind me. I can feel it.
“Did you get some rest?” she asks.
“Eventually.”
“You seemed… I don’t know. Distant yesterday. Not that you aren’t always a little distant, but… sorry. That sounded—”
“Fine,” I say, not unkindly. “I’m fine.”
I turn slightly, just enough to catch her expression. She’s chewing the inside of her cheek, her eyes flicking down and away. She wants to say more. I see the tilt of her head and the way she worries the sleeve of her coat. But then she turns away.
Just as Harper ducks out to retrieve another file, I notice Mara slip in through the opposite door, her movements efficient but hushed. She gives me a quick, unreadable nod and sets a sealed tray of testing vials on the side table.
“Dr. Varon,” she says softly, her voice precise.
