Page 3 of Hunted to Be Mine
I pulled off my ID lanyard, tucked it into my pocket. If this was about human connection, institutional authority would only create barriers. My palms stayed steady as I smoothed my blazer, though my pulse was up.
The lock clicked—sharp, small.
Inside, Specter’s attention shifted to me fully. His focus landed and held. This close, I could see details the window had hidden. A thin scar along his jawline, neat and straight. Faint chemical burns on his forearms where tattoos might’ve been removed. The micro-tremor in his free hand that suggested recent neural stimulation.
“Dr. Selina Crawford.” Smoke and gravel in that voice, carrying an accent I couldn’t place. Not foreign, but deliberately obscured, like he’d trained himself to speak without origin. “Expert in cognitive reconstruction. Author of ‘Breaking theUnbreakable Mind.’ Guest lecturer at Columbia, currently on sabbatical due to ongoing research commitments. Though I suspect your real reason for leaving was more personal. Something that made you question whether all minds can truly be healed.”
I kept my expression neutral, though something cold settled in my chest.
“How do you…”
“Know about the work that makes you question your own methods?” He tilted his head, studying my reaction with cold curiosity. “SENTINEL’s files aren’t as secure as they think. Or maybe I’m remembering things I shouldn’t know. Hard to tell the difference anymore.”
Every instinct told me to run, but I took the chair positioned precisely at the limit of his reach. “If you’ve read my files, then you know I don’t give up easily.”
“No.” Something shifted in his expression: surprise, perhaps, or respect. “You don’t. Even when you should. Even when it costs you everything.” He leaned forward, the restraint pulling taut. “Tell me, Doctor, do you still have moments where you doubt your own judgment? When you wonder if some minds are meant to stay broken? Ever felt like you were flinching when someone moves too fast?”
My pulse quickened, but I kept my hands steady on my lap.
“We’re not here to discuss my methods.”
“Aren’t we?” He settled back, that disturbing smile curving at his lips again. “People like us spot each other. It’s why Dawson really chose you. Not for your expertise, but because you’ve been tested by failure too. You understand what it’s like to have your certainties shaken, to realize that some damage might be permanent.”
“Is that what happened to you? Someone convinced you that your original self wasn’t worth saving?”
“Someone.” The laugh came low and bitter. “Such a small word for such a large absence. I know there was a before. I can feel the shape of it, like a hole in my jaw where a tooth was pulled. But when I reach for it…” Fingers pressed to his temple, wincing. “Have you ever tried to remember a dream while you’re still dreaming it? The harder you grasp, the faster it dissolves.”
“The conditioning creates neural barriers. Your memories aren’t gone, just isolated. We can work on building bridges…”
“We.” He tested the word like wine. “You’ve already decided to help me. Even knowing what I am. Even knowing what I’ve done.”
“I don’t know what you’ve done.”
“I’ve killed people, Doctor. With these hands.” He flexed his free fingers, studying them with detached interest. “I remember the mechanics of it. How much pressure to collapse a windpipe. The angle required to slide a blade between ribs. The way a body goes slack when the brain stem is severed. Clinical knowledge, cleanly preserved. But the faces…” Those steel eyes found mine again. “The faces are smoke.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“You’re asking if I feel guilt? Remorse? Horror?” A pause for consideration. “I feel… curious. Like I’m reading someone else’s diary, trying to understand why they made the choices they did. Is that normal, Doctor? To be a stranger to your own sins?”
“In cases of severe dissociative conditioning, it’s expected. The mind protects itself by…”
“I don’t want protection.” The words came out sharp, hard. His whole body tensed, free fist tightening. “I want to remember. Even if it destroys me. Even if what I find is worse than this nothing.”
“Why?”
“Because someone stole my choices. My sins. My very self.” His volume dropped low. “And I want them back. All of them. Even the monstrous parts. Especially those.”
The conviction in his tone tightened something under my ribs. This wasn’t about redemption or healing. This was about reclamation. Ownership. He wanted his darkness back not to atone for it, but to possess it.
“And if recovering those memories breaks you completely?”
“Then at least I’ll break as myself.”
We stared at each other across the small space, and I recognized something in him I’d never admitted to seeing in a patient before: kinship. The desperate need to own your damage rather than be owned by it.
“I’ll help you. But we do this my way. No games. No manipulation. You want your memories back? Then you have to trust me.”
“Trust.” He savored the concept. “Such a fragile thing to ask of someone who can’t even trust himself.” His gaze held mine steadily. “But then again, you still trust, don’t you? Even after discovering that some patients can’t be saved, that some conditioning runs too deep. That’s what makes you dangerous, Doctor. You still believe in redemption.”
