Page 45 of Fractured Devotion
She’s reconstructing Trial 14.
I sit back and smile.
She’s not just remembering who she used to be.
She’s becoming it again.
And when she does, I’ll be ready.
Not to stop her.
But to meet her there.
Exactly where the fracture begins.
Later that night, I take the long way back to my rental because I don’t like patterns. Routine makes you visible, predictable.
I pass the bakery near Celeste’s building, the one with the flickering neon sign and terrible tea. I stop just outside, under the guise of tying my shoe, but my eyes are elsewhere.
The surveillance van is parked exactly where it was three days ago. It has the same dented panel and the same tinted windshield. It’s unmarked but not unfamiliar.
Someone’s watching her.
But it’s not a clinic-grade observation. This is external. Government, maybe. Or private. But not internal protocol.
I watch it for a while and wait for movement, but none comes.
I should walk away.
Instead, I take note of the license plate, same as before. I should run the number to see if I can find any information that’ll be useful.
She thinks Miramont is the only warzone she’s navigating.
Well, she’s wrong.
Someone’s waiting to catch her mid-transition, right between fractured and whole. And if they get to her before I do…
They won’t understand what they’re awakening.
But I do.
I keep walking.
And the van doesn’t move.
I slide into the bakery, the one she visits when she’s not drowning in protocol. I pick a corner booth near the window, but tucked enough to vanish from notice. The lighting is dim, barely more than a sigh, but it’s enough.
From my coat, I pull the backup tablet, the one with a low-frequency signal and hard-scramble encryption. It pings once, then unlocks. I tap the icon marked “CROW” and wait for the visuals to load.
A soft, grainy view from her apartment’s living room camera floods the screen. The angle’s clean, and she’s in frame.
Celeste is barefoot with her coat off and sweater loose. Her hair’s still damp from the shower, curled at the ends. She moveslike she’s unspooling from something tight, rolling her shoulders as she crosses the room, unbothered and unknowing.
I lower the brightness.
She grabs a book, settles on the couch, and pulls her legs beneath her. There’s a bruise that I hadn’t seen before on her ankle. It’s faint.
I shouldn’t look.
