Page 47 of Fractured Devotion
I push myself upright at a measured pace, peeling myself from the too-warm indent I’ve made. There’s no sound in the apartment, no lights flickering, no doors ajar, and nothing that shouldn’t be.
And still, something feels off.
I cross to the kitchenette in measured steps, my bare feet moving on the tile without a sound. The kettle clicks as I turn it on. Tea again. Routine is my anchor, even when the ritual tastes like nothing.
I scan the small space while waiting. Everything is in its place. But that can also mean whoever touched it knew how to leave it that way.
The tea burns my tongue, but I drink anyway.
By 7 a.m., I’m at the clinic.
I walk through the lobby like I belong, which I do. But there’s a different charge to the way people glance up this morning. There’s something lingering behind their eyes. Curiosity or caution. Maybe both.
I nod at Harper as I pass Diagnostics. Her mouth opens like she wants to say something. She always has something to say, but I don’t slow down. I take the elevator straight to the top floor, to my backup apartment.
There’s something I need to check.
Inside, the scent of antiseptic still clings faintly to the air. The drawer I closed days ago remains sealed, undisturbed. I pull it open again and sift through the contents.
Everything is still aligned, still untouched. Except the USB stick. It’s turned slightly by millimeters. It’s not enough to call it tampering, but it's enough for me to know it wasn’t me.
I stare at it.
And then I take it and slide it into my coat pocket.
Downstairs, the morning meeting with Rourke is already underway by the time I arrive. He doesn’t look up as I enter. He just gestures to the empty seat beside him.
“Missed your punctual streak,” he murmurs without warmth.
I don’t answer.
He talks for seventeen minutes about projected budgets and accelerated timelines, the usual corporate veil stretched over questionable ambition. I hear every word and none of them. My mind is on the top floor, still circling that drawer.
When he finishes, he turns to me. “Trial 14?”
“Still theoretical,” I lie.
“Is that your professional or emotional assessment?”
“Both.”
He smirks like that’s a joke. Like he knows I’m always lying.
I leave the meeting with a headache blooming just beneath my left eye. Alec is waiting for me at the end of the hall, his arms folded.
“Did you sleep?” he asks.
“Surprisingly, yes.”
He doesn’t push. He just walks like a steady shadow beside me. I don’t say much. But the nearness of him keeps my lungs from folding in on themselves.
Later, in my lab, I check the system logs again. And there it is. A shadow tag I didn’t see before. A clone user string, almost identical to mine.
Almost.
Someone’s been watching. Not just me, but through me. Into the systems. Into my files.
They’re not trying to steal the flash drive.
