“The trauma doctor,” he continues quickly. “The one who works nights. Dr. Hale.”
He speaks her name with uncertainty, as if unsure whether he is permitted to do so.
I keep my pulse even.
“Why her?”
He hesitates. Mikel reaches toward the third finger.
“Because she saves people,” Daniel rushes out. “Because she’s predictable. She runs toward damage and always shows up.”
He exhales sharply, his chest heaving.
“They studied her shifts,” he continues without prompting. “They knew which nights she’d be on call.”
The information confirms what I already know. This wasn’t random intimidation. It was a rehearsal.
“Were you instructed to kill?” I continue.
“No,” he answers immediately. “No. We were told not to kill anyone.”
“Why?”
“So the message would be received.”
I lean back slightly in my chair.
“Explain.”
Daniel’s shoulders sag. The fight drains out of him in increments.
“She had to see it,” he whispers. “Had to feel it. That’s what we were told.”
His breathing stutters. Sweat drips from his chin onto the table. His eyes dart again to the door, to Mikel’s hands, and then to the tray of instruments he can now see clearly.
He understands the structure of this conversation. Each refusal costs him. Each answer delays the next fracture. His breathing fills the silence between my questions. Each inhale scrapes against the pain. Each exhale trembles at the edges.
“Who gave the order?” I ask.
His shoulders twitch under Karp’s hand. The massive grip resting there doesn’t tighten, yet Daniel feels the pressure all the same.
“Victor,” he insists quickly. “I never met anyone above him.”
His voice cracks halfway through the sentence. He clears his throat, attempting to recover control.
“Above him exists,” I reply calmly.
His eyes close for a second before returning to mine. He tries to calculate whether continued denial will preserve him longer than a confession.
He looks quickly at Mikel’s hands and at the tray. Fear begins to override pride.
“I never heard the name directly,” he mutters, swallowing hard. Sweat beads along his temple and slides down toward his jawline. “Victor kept it compartmentalized.”
Mikel’s grip tightens slightly on Daniel’s damaged hand. The movement is minimal but deliberate. Daniel stiffens in response.
“Arkady,” he blurts.
There’s no visible reaction from me. But internally, rage burns freely.
