Page 5 of Fractured Devotion
My lungs seize.
I haven’t heard that name aloud in decades.
I slam the journal shut. My fingers tremble.
And without meaning to, I hum the lullaby. Slowed and twisted.
Outside, the sky bleeds deeper into black.
Tomorrow, I will pretend this never happened.
But tonight, the fracture breathes.
Chapter 2 – Kade - Watching Her Unseen
The clinic’s corridors are emptier now. Boardroom conversations have dissolved into whispers behind closed doors, and the sterile hum of Miramont resumes its usual rhythm. But I don’t return upstairs. Instead, I drift downward.
My stride is slow and unhurried, but each step is purposeful. The walls here are brushed steel, cold to the touch. Most staff don’t even know this wing exists—buried beneath Diagnostics, below the behavioral archives. Only those with unrestricted clearance pass through these corridors without question. I’m one of the few.
A courtesy of Dr. Felix Rourke.
Officially, I’m here to modernize Miramont’s surveillance and biometric integration systems. But unofficially? I’m here to retrieve something much older—buried data, hidden research logs, and proof of what they did to her. To others.
Felix made the introduction, and his influence unlocked doors that should’ve remained sealed. He believes Miramont holds what he needs. And I… I believe Celeste Varon is the key.
At the final biometric checkpoint, I press my palm to the sensor. A soft chime sounds, and the steel doors hiss open.
The surveillance chamber welcomes me with silence and frost. Screens line the far wall, still dark. The only illumination comes from the emergency LEDs under the consoles, casting my shadow in long, eerie streaks. It feels like slipping into water—cold, absolute, and clarifying.
I take a seat.
A few keystrokes bring the screens to life. Dozens of empty rooms flicker across the grid—labs, corridors, waiting chambers. The ordinary rhythm of Miramont. I type in my access sequence, a root-level command masked by a dummy upgrade protocol.
This isn’t about routine security.
This is about her.
Celeste Varon.
The day’s feeds begin to load, and I scrub through hours of her movements. Her lab. Her office. The meeting room. Her body language is clinical, tight. Nothing wasted. But there are tells—subtle shifts in her posture and moments when her eyes drift too long. I make notes.
18:32 – Fidgeting with ring finger. Possible anxiety marker.
20:05 – Lingering outside the surveillance server room. Intentional?
I slow down the playback.
She later stands alone in the boardroom, staring at the darkened monitors after the blackout, when everyone has already left. Her expression doesn’t match the others’. She isn’t surprised. She’s hunting.
I lean in closer.
I don’t have a feed inside her apartment. Not yet. And that bothers me more than I expected.
I make a note. Find insertion points, wiring schematics, and something subtle, organic.
She’s not someone you observe in pieces. You have to watch her whole.
Two hours later, I meet with Dr. Felix Rourke in the sublevel greenhouse—one of the few places where sound doesn’t travel. He’s already seated on a bench, pruning a cluster of invasive orchids with surgical precision.
