My grip on her leg tightened.
I wrote.
No memory. Likely... maybe.
She nodded and typed.
Background unclear. Patient uncooperative on that front. Behavioral signs consistent with prior tactical training.
Dry. Clinical. Code for: this guy kills people for a living.
Forum users kept piling in. Some speculated on power requirements, others argued about material composition from pixel noise.
Half of them sounded like they wanted to fuck the hardware more than understand it.
Clare fielded questions, batting away anything that wanted location, facility type, real names.
Our heads bent over the keyboard together. My bare shoulder pressed against the duvet at her upper arm.
Outside, the light faded by degrees. The rooftop line across from the dormer window blurred into the sinking sun, then sharpened again as the city lights flicked on. Clare’s leg under my hand occasionally tensed when she hit a typo she hated, then eased when she corrected it.
My body sat almost completely relaxed.
That should have scared me more than anything on the display.
She hit refresh again.
A new username appeared halfway down the thread. Different tone before I even read a word.
“V_Actual_87.”
Clare went rigid under my palm.
The post was short.
“This is false information. These images are doctored. No hospital would produce scans with this resolution on non-standard equipment. Who are you really?”
A flat line where Clare’s lips should be.
“Keyboard cop. There’s always one.”
She typed a response.
Images are authentic. Equipment specs not relevant to chip identification. If you don’t have constructive input, please refrain from speculation.
Professional. Dismissive.
She hit send.
Two minutes ticked by. The little “typing...” indicator flashed, disappeared, returned.
The next post slammed into the thread in all caps.
“TAKE THIS DOWN. NOW. YOU’RE A FRAUD. SHAME ON YOU!”
Clare flinched like the words had volume.
“I’m ignoring him.” But nothing about her tone sounded like ignorance. “Troll. Paranoid dick with a god complex.”
