“Wrong answer,” I say, and pull.
The nail comes up in a slow, glistening arc, a pale crescent peeling away from pink. Blood wells in a sudden bright sheet. She shrieks, full-throated this time, head snapping back against the chair. For a moment the sound has no words in it at all. It’s just pure, animal objection.
When she comes back to herself she’s sobbing, great heaving gasps that jolt her wounded leg and make fresh blood spill. I dab at the fingertip with gauze, absurdly tender. The nail hangs at a cheap angle, attached by a thin stubborn patch of tissue. Ouch. Removing that is gonna hurt. I almost feel sorry for her.
“Let’s try again,” I say. “Username. Passwords. Security questions. Routes to the Director.”
She squeezes her eyes shut. “I— can’t?—”
“You can,” I say pleasantly. “You just don’twantto. There’s a difference.” I set the forceps on the next finger. “Thumbs are messy. We’ll do those last.”
She stares at the instruments, at her hand, at the streaks of blood on my wrist. Then something inside her buckles.
“Fine,” she croaks. “Fine. There’s a main login. My initials and staff number. The password is—” She swallows, cheeks flaming with humiliation even now. “It’s K33pTh3m@liV3. With numbers instead of Es.” Her eyes squeeze shut. “My staff taught me. So I’d remember.”
“Oh, that’s cute,” I say, genuinely charmed. “And deeply ironic.” I fish a pen from her breast pocket and write it neatly along the inside of my wrist, alongside the little tally marks I’ve already made tonight and double checking where the capital letters and special characters fall. “What else?”
She licks her dry lips. “There’s a second layer. For Director communications. A phrase.”
“Go on.”
“Ark…doesn’t…sink,” she whispers. “All caps. No spaces.”
I smile. Of course it doesn’t. Not until someone pokes enough holes in the hull. And yet she claimed that my obsession with the termArkwas irrelevant. I always knew she was a liar.
“And your answers to the nice little questions they ask to prove you’re really you?” I prompt. “First pet, mother’s maiden name, all that delicious identity theft fodder.”
Her eyes flood again. I let her hesitate just long enough to feel the weight of it, then nudge the loosened nail. The tiny movement sends a spike of agony through her. A choked sob tears free.
“Dog,” she gasps. “We had a dog. Milo. My mother’s maiden name was Elaine Chapplefield. First school St Aaron’s. Favourite book Jane Eyre, because I was a cliché, happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” I say, writing as she speaks. “Look at you, Doctor. Sharing. Vulnerable. This is real progress. You should be so proud of yourself.”
She laughs then, a broken, incredulous little bark that dissolves immediately into a sob. “You’re going to kill me anyway,” she says hoarsely. “Aren’t you?”
I consider her. She’s grey at the edges now, sweat-soaked and blood-slick, her blouse plastered to her skin. The bandage on her thigh is sodden, the towel beneath the chair a lake of red. Her fingers tremble. Her pulse hammers visibly in her neck.
“Eventually,” I concede. “Everyone dies. Even Directors. Even me, apparently.” My hand drifts to my stomach, a reflex I catch and punish with a dig of my nails. “But not yet. I told you. You’re my message. I want them to see what happens when they try to turn my body into a community resource.”
She gropes for the arm of the chair, trying to push herself up. Her heel slips in her own blood and she sags back down with a strangled moan.
“Help me,” she whispers. “Please, Kayla. I’m bleeding out. I know you know what that looks like. You can stop it. Compress…call an ambulance…you know the protocol?—”
“Oh, I do,” I say. “Pressure. Elevation. Tourniquet if you’re feeling dramatic.” I reach down and adjust the bandage, pressing hard enough to make her squeal, then knot it tighter. “I’ve done you the courtesy of not nicking anything too important. You’ve got time.”
“How much?” she breathes.
I pretend to consider. “Enough to answer more questions if I think of any.” I lean in, resting my elbows on my knees so we’re almost eye level. “Not enough to get comfortable.”
Her chin wobbles. “You want me to suffer.”
I shrug. “I want you to understand. Suffering is a side effect. Take it as a learning opportunity. Everyday’s a school day and all that jazz.”
She stares at me, eyes glassy. “I can’t…I can’t do this any more. Please. I’m asking you as a clinician. As someone who understands pain. End it.”
The phrase as a clinician nearly makes me laugh again.
“You’re still trying to frame this as a consultation,” I say. “Adorable.” I pat her cheek, smearing a little of her blood there. “You don’t get to edit the ending. That’s my job. But I’ll tell you what.” I stand, stretching, feeling my spine crackle like popping candy. “You’ve been very helpful tonight. Gamely participating in your own consequence. I’ll let shock do most of the rest.”
