“You’re going to give me more than that,” he says. “You should know I’m capable of handling people who get in my way. So if you’re some delusional grief-stricken sicko, I suggest you get back inside.”
A warning. Interesting. From the conversation I overheard, he gave me the impression of a man willing to accept help from wherever it came. Desperate, even.
But here he is. Guarded in every way except one.
“I’m a doctor,” I say. “Forced to be here by my employer because of a recent tragedy.”
“What tragedy?”
“Is that necessary for you to know?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him.
“Why?”
“You don’t seem to grieve,” he replies. He crosses his arms and the motion makes him look even bigger than moments ago. Physically, he’s much stronger than me. Stronger than Talon beside him, for that matter. But if he makes one move against me, all I need is a second to reach the sedative in my pocket.
I lower my hands another inch.
“My mother was murdered,” I say. “By a drunk she once helped at the hospital. Talking about it with a room full of strangers doesn’t do anything for me.”
I say it looking Cassian in the eyes. He tilts his head. His nostrils flare. He’s not the man of many words anymore. But something in him shifts, something as imperceptible as my pain.
Recognition.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s say I believe you. Why would you help us? What do you get out of this?”
I think about it.
What is it, indeed.
I’ve spent my life applying structure where chaos reigns. Imposing order on failing bodies, collapsing systems, the slow entropy of tissue and time. And yet somewhere along the way, something slipped loose inside me. My mother’s death severed whatever tether I had to the world’s narrative. She believed in helping people. That’s exactly what killed her.
“You saw something after you died,” I say. “Something I cannot see. But as a doctor, I know this: when two systems give conflicting results, you test them. You examine where they diverge.”
If what happened to my mother was not just human cruelty but cosmic neglect—
I need to check.
“And you think killing him is… what?” Cassian asks. “A diagnostic?”
“Yes.”
Talon’s eyebrows shoot up. “A diagnostic?”
“I want to stop your heart and restart it. I want to be there when it happens. And I want to control every second of it so that if it works, I can understand it fully.”
Talon’s cheeks hollow out.
“I didn’t agree to anything yet,” he says quietly.
None of us respond to that. It’s not my place to convince this man. Frankly, it may be in my best interest to convince him not to. Committing crime alone is one thing. I can make sure my hands don’t shake and my mind doesn’t falter. But committing crime with someone unhinged, someone whose sanity hinges on whether he interprets the universe correctly… That places me in unnecessary proximity to unpredictability.
But it seems like my best interest doesn’t matter anymore.
Something about standing here anchors me more firmly than any hospital corridor or operating room ever has. Cassian’s scrutiny. Talon’s frayed bravado. The raw pull of whatever strange logic binds them.
