Page 121 of Vital Signs
"Last chance to start talking voluntarily," Shepherd said quietly.
Wright looked bored. "I've overseen research where subjects endured pain far beyond anything you could legally inflict. Pain is simply nerve signals interpreted by the brain. Nothing more."
Something twisted in my gut. The casual way he spoke about suffering. The clinical distance between his words and the reality of what he'd done to Tyler. To hundreds like him.
War moved with military efficiency, grabbing Wright's left hand and extending his pinky finger. Wright's clinical facade cracked instantly.
"Wait, wait, wait!" he gasped, trying desperately to pull his hand away. "You can't—this is—I'm a surgeon! My hands are my livelihood!" His voice rose in pitch, panic overtaking any remaining composure. "Please, for God's sake, not my fingers!"
The bone cutters closed around his knuckle. Wright's eyes widened.
"Stop!" he screamed. "I'll tell you! I'll tell you anything! WAIT—"
The crack of bone followed by Wright's howl filled the room. Blood spattered across the concrete floor. The severed tip of his finger rolled away, leaving a crimson trail.
Wright's scream dissolved into a series of ragged, hyperventilating gasps. His face drained of all color as he stared at his mutilated hand in shock. For several seconds, he couldn't even form words, just made small, animal sounds of distress.
"Jesus Christ," he panted finally, voice thin and reedy with shock. "You cut off my... you actually..." His words dissolved into a low moan as the full pain registered. "Oh God, oh God..."
He retched suddenly, vomit spattering the front of his pristine lab coat. The stench filled the room, acrid and sour. Wright's head drooped, his body trembling uncontrollably.
"You can't," he whispered, looking up at us with disbelief. "This isn't... people don't... this isn't happening."
"We're not interrogators," Misha said, picking up the severed fingertip and examining it. "We're family."
Wright's breathing came in shallow, rapid gulps. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. "Please... I need a doctor. I'm going into shock. I need... I need..."
“I am a doctor,” War said coldly. “And we’ve even brought a nurse.” He gestured to me.
I swallowed, fighting the urge to vomit. "Tyler Graham," I demanded. "Tell me about Tyler Graham."
Sweat poured down Wright's face. His eyes kept returning to War's hands, tracking every movement near the surgical tools.
"I don't—" he started, then flinched when Misha shifted. "Subject identifiers are alphanumeric. I don't recall... I can't possibly remember every—"
Misha selected a curved scalpel, testing its edge with his thumb. Wright's words died in his throat.
"4-5-8-G-21," he blurted, voice higher than before, losing the measured cadence of his doctor persona. "Cardiovascular response patterns within... within expected parameters." His gaze remained fixed on the scalpel in Misha's hand. "Please don't cut my face. I have a conference next month."
The incongruous concern for his appearance made my stomach turn. Even now, he was thinking about his career, his standing, his future presentations.
"His name was Tyler. Not a fucking subject number."
Wright's eyes darted between us, calculating odds, measuring our resolve. "Tyler," he conceded quickly. "Yes. The transgender subject. He was very cooperative initially. Almost eager."
Misha traced the tip of the scalpel down Wright's cheek, not cutting yet, just letting him feel the cold metal. Wright's entire body went rigid, his remaining fingers clutching the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"Wait," he whispered, a note of genuine panic in his voice. "Not my face. Please. The protocols. I'll tell you about the protocols."
"You will anyway," Misha replied, pressing just hard enough to break the skin. A thin line of blood appeared, trailing down Wright's cheek.
Wright's composure fractured completely. His body convulsed against the restraints, a whimper escaping his throat. A dark stain spread across the front of his pants as his bladder released.
"The protocols," he gasped, shame and terror warring on his face. "God, please. I'll tell you everything. The OLEP protocols. Just stop."
The sight of the proud, arrogant doctor soiling himself should have been satisfying. Instead, it was just pathetic. Human. This monster, who had murdered Tyler, who had tortured and killed dozens, was reduced to begging and pissing himself at the first real taste of pain.
War nodded to Eli, who wrenched Wright's head back. Misha positioned the scalpel above Wright's eye. Wright thrashed against his restraints, sheer animal panic overtaking him.
