Page 10 of Hunted to Be Mine
“You think you know what I came here for.” It wasn’t a question.
“I know you didn’t surrender yourself to SENTINEL to play chess and psychological mind tricks.” I nodded toward the board on the side table. “Though the metaphor isn’t lost on me.”
For the first time, genuine amusement, brief and dark, touched his features. “Which piece do you think you are, Doctor?”
I closed my portfolio, leaning forward to match his posture. “I’m not on the board. I’m the player across from you.”
His smile developed slowly, dangerously. “That’s where you’re wrong. We’re all pieces in this match. The question is who’s controlling us.”
Our eyes locked. The floor seemed unsteady, like one wrong decision would send me somewhere I couldn’t navigate.
“Your turn, Doctor.”
I leaned back, reclaiming some distance.
“You know what fascinates me about chess?” I tapped my finger on the polished table. “It’s not about winning. It’s about revealing who your opponent truly is.”
His focus sharpened, tracking my gesture.
“Every player has a pattern. Some sacrifice pawns too easily. Others cling to their knights even when tactically unwise.” I paused, watching the subtle changes in his expression. “I’m not here to win against you, Specter. I’m here because you called for help, and despite your current behavior, I believe that call was genuine.”
He froze completely—the stillness before violence.
“I’ve studied Oblivion’s conditioning techniques for years, the pieces I could gather, at least. The shattering of identity. The installation of triggers.” I maintained his attention, refusing to glance away. “No one walks away from that intact. Not even you.”
“And you think you can put Humpty Dumpty back together again?” The words cut deep.
“I think you wouldn’t be here if some part of you didn’t want that.”
Silence stretched taut. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Your turn,” I echoed his earlier challenge. “But think carefully. This isn’t about checkmate. It’s about whether you want to remain a piece or become a player.”
“Do you know what they stole from me first?” Specter broke our stalemate. He walked toward the window, giving me room to recover. “Not memories. Not identity.”
I watched him, noting the deliberate gap he maintained. “What then?”
“Choice.” He traced a finger along the bulletproof glass. “Even the simplest ones. Coffee or tea. Sleep or stay awake. Live or die.” He turned back to me. “Your file says you specialize in trauma-induced behavioral patterns. Tell me, Doctor, what happens to a mind when every decision is methodically removed?”
“It creates a dependency framework.” I remained seated. “The subject becomes receptive to external control.”
“Subject.” A humorless grin. “Clinical term. Safer that way, isn’t it?”
I met his eyes. “When did you first notice the conditioning failing?”
He began circling the room, with me at its center. “Not failing. Splintering. There’s a difference.”
“When did it start splintering, then?” I remained still, refusing to track his path.
“I don’t recall an exact instance.” His words came from behind me now. “It took some time until the reconditioning sessions stopped… working on me. I didn’t tell them, of course.”
I sensed him approach, the air shifting between us. Not making contact, but near enough that I sensed his body heat through my blazer.
“What I want to know,” he continued, his tone dropping, “is why. Why my mind started recalling things. Why the wipesfailed to stick. And if it could allow me to completely shatter that barrier in my head.”
His proximity raised every alarm in my body, but I maintained composure. This was a challenge of boundaries, of control, of my professional resolve.
“I rather enjoy recalling events… like our yesterday’s kiss.”
