“You’ll acclimate.”
“Don’t you mean I’ll grow on ya?”
“That would imply attachment. I prefer neutral observer bias.”
His smile stretches. “Harsh, doc.”
I check the time on my tablet. “Your roommate is expected to arrive. I’ll be back shortly.”
“Even a few moments away from you is going to be torture, doc,” he says, hands in his pockets. “Guess I’ll rot in this bed, waiting for you to warm it up with me.”
I ignore him, since I’m aware he’s looking for a reaction. But his files are clear, and the current observations confirm the findings. Stan is someone with high-intensity emotions, poor impulse control, and tendency toward projection through humor and sex.
I can certainly relate to the latter, particularly sex. It’s biological after all. So sex, to me, is utilitarian. Efficient stress relief. A chemical exhale. But I would never, under any circumstance, perform such physical acts with my subjects. Clinical distance is non-negotiable.
Subjects like Stan are here because they’ve entrusted me to help dismantle the negative side-effects of a drug. To test them, track their data, and keep them safe.
Stan continues to make rather lewd jokes—though, I don’t bat an eye—while I look him over further. He’s objectively attractive. Handsome features. Defined muscles. Strong symmetry.
I step back into the corridor. I can’t get this distracted. And now, I realize I even forgot to introduce myself at the first sight of him.
My back’s turned to him as I say, “I’m leaving now.”
“Cold.” I hear him chuckle. “I respect it, doc.”
I step through the door, nearly out of the room when I hear him again.
“Hey, Em?” Stan’s voice follows me. “Thanks for the tour.”
I acknowledge it with another nod, then exit. The door slides shut behind me.
I take some steps down the corridor before I hear footsteps. Light, measured, and almost silent. I turn to the sound and feel the air leavemy lungs.
***
Tablet balanced in my hand, I register the faint drop of my shoulders the moment I see him.
He approaches silently. His steps controlled, posture perfect. Black clothing outlines a lean frame built for precision. His auburn hair is slightly longer than his old ID. His eyes are bluer than any report suggested. Clearer too, considering the four months he spent in a coma.
I’ve memorized his files. It’s the one I’ve read the most frequently, hoping he’d be able to join the experiment. His files list his birthdate as June 30th, height precisely at six feet, weight around one-eighty, and a family tree that details his Filipino mother, a Korean father whose whereabouts have been unknown, and a stepfather of mixed Black-American and Spanish-Filipino descent.
He stops a few feet from me with a stillness that reads as though I’m under his assessment.
I take him in the same way. His ocular focus seems steady. Shoulders square. Recovery more complete than medically reasonable. The Song-Smiths funded his care well, but even with that, this level of restoration borders on improbable.
I scan for the rise and fall of his chest. There’s pause where I expect motion, a hitch where there shouldn’t be one. My fingers tighten around the tablet.
Delayed respiration, I reason. Post-coma autonomic lag is not uncommon, especially after prolonged sedation. Travel stress, altitude change, disrupted circadian rhythm—any of it could explain this.
Then his chest lifts with a slow inhale. I exhale only after that,relieved that this person is standing in front of me after defying all of the odds.
Lix. One of Clo’s primary operatives. The surviving Dela Cruz son. The man who pushed Clo off a cliff to save his sister and shouldn’t be standing here at all.
A miracle or an anomaly. I prefer the latter.
I straighten to speak. This time, as distracted as I am, I don’t forget to introduce myself first. “Hello. I’m Em. You must be—”
“I go by Nil now,” he cuts in, quiet but certain. “Thought of it on the drive from the airport.”
