The guard placed the water and sandwich on the small table within Sabin’s reach.
“Look, I’m not asking for a ticket out of here. Just to eat with dignity. You can stand right there with your gun or whatever while I eat.” He tried a smile, the one that had gotten him into—and out of—more trouble than was probably healthy. “What’s your name, anyway? Seems like we should be on a first-name basis if you’re going to keep bringing me these gourmet meals.”
No response.
“I get it. No fraternizing with the prisoner.” Sabin nodded toward his broken fingers. “Thanks, by the way. For fixing these up. You didn’t have to do that.”
The guard glanced toward the camera in the corner, then reached out and broke off a piece of the sandwich, bringing it to Sabin’s mouth. It was a small kindness—he could have just left Sabin to figure it out on his own—but it felt significant.
“Merci,” Sabin said quietly after he swallowed. “You know, I had a friend once. Military guy. Used to say that following orders isn’t an excuse when the orders are wrong.”
The guard stiffened.
“Whatever they have over you,” Sabin said, lowering his voice, “whatever’s making you do this—I hope you find a way out.”
The guard straightened up, his expression going blank again. But as he turned to leave, his gaze lingered on Sabin’s zip-tied wrists for a moment too long. Then he walked out.
Sabin waited until the footsteps had receded completely, then set to work. With a grimace of pain, he contorted himself enough to grip the lockpick between his first two relatively functional fingers and pull it free of his waistband.
Picking a lock one-handed was difficult. Picking a zip tie behind his back with broken fingers was going to be a new challenge entirely. But the ceramic pick was designed specifically for this—strong enough to wedge into the locking mechanism, thin enough to slip through.
He worked slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain in his hand. Every small movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating up his arm, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t afford to. Not with whatever that “baseline” measurement was preparing him for.
Twenty minutes of careful manipulation later, he felt the first zip tie give way. His right hand was free.
He immediately reached for his left wrist, untying that restraint much more quickly now that he had both hands. His ankles were still bound to the chair legs, and the chair itself was bolted to the floor, but having his hands free was a significant improvement. He could now?—
The sound of the lock disengaging again sent his heart racing. He quickly slid his right hand behind the chair,mimicking the position of being restrained while palming the ceramic pick. He forced his breathing to slow, arranging his expression into something neutral.
The door swung open.
A different man entered. Older, with salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses that gave him an academic air. He wore a white lab coat like the previous medical examiner, but his demeanor was entirely different—more engaged, more present. In some ways, that was worse.
“Jean-Sabin Cavalier.” The man smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m Dr. Adrian Cook. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Mais, I'd say the pleasure's all mine,” Sabin replied, “but it ain’t.”
Cook chuckled and set a small metal case on the table where the sandwich had been. “I understand you’re wondering about the tests my colleague performed earlier.”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Curiosity is natural.” Cook opened the case to reveal a row of vials, neatly labeled with codes Sabin couldn’t decipher from his position. “You’ve been selected for a program, Mr. Cavalier. A rather exclusive one.”
“I’m flattered, but I’m not really a joiner.” Sabin kept his right hand hidden, fingers wrapped around the lockpick. “Team sports never were my thing.”
“This isn’t optional.” Cook selected one of the vials and held it up to the light. The liquid inside was clear with a faint amber tint. “But I think you’ll find it transformative.”
“Not interested in being transformed, thanks. I like myself just fine.”
Cook ignored him and prepared a syringe. “I’m going to make you better. Enhanced.”
“I’m already pretty enhanced.” Sabin tried for levity, but it fell flat even to his own ears. “Top-tier criminal mastermind. Excellent cook. Unbeatable at Trivial Pursuit.”
“Humor as a defense mechanism. Interesting.” Cook approached the chair. “The research your sister is currently retrieving for us will allow us to perfect what has so far been imperfect. Our current methods produce inconsistent results. Some subjects retain too much autonomy. Others lose essential cognitive functions. The balance has been... elusive.”
Ice spread through Sabin’s veins. Subjects. Methods. Autonomy.
“You should consider yourself fortunate,” Cook continued, seemingly oblivious to Sabin’s growing horror. “You’ll be the first subject of the completed protocol rather than one of the earlier iterations.”
