“Shady?” I echo.
“Whenever there’s wiggle room for anything, some bastard’s gonna use it up. You know?”
I pause.
“I doubt it. My colleagues offered me a position there once. Perhaps there’s not much administrative oversight.” I fold the booklet shut. “But they’re not the type to abuse that.”
“Yeah, okay,” Talon says, raising his hands. “Speaking from experience, that’s all. Usually there’s shady money where there are no rules. But maybe I only know one kind of environment.”
“Rules exist,” I say. “They’re simply self-imposed.”
He stares at me.
A small thread tugs in my chest. Something that feels like doubt. For the first time since mentioning the clinic, a question forms quietly:
What exactly are my colleagues doing there?
They never told me in detail. Then again, doctor confidentiality makes it habit not to discuss patients and trials unprompted.
I shut the notebook, slide it back into the drawer, and look at the two men sitting in the middle of my kitchen like they belong nowhere near peace or order.
“I need more information,” I say. “There’s clearly a lot I don’t know about it.”
Talon spreads his hands. “Then call ’em up and ask.”
“I can’t. Asking questions out of nowhere would be too suspicious.”
Cassian absorbs that with a silent nod.
“How long do you need?” he asks.
“The rest of the day. There’s someone at the hospital who used to work there. She should have what we need.”
Talon squints. “That won’t be suspicious?”
“No,” I reply. “I have a way around people.”
They stare at me like they think I’m lying. I’m not. They just haven’t seen the other version of me yet.
“I still don’t trust you,” Cassian says. He gestures at the files. “Give me those for safekeeping.”
Another leap of faith testing my conviction. How many leaps can a man make before he breaks his neck on the concrete?
“Fine,” I say. “But if that’s the case, I’m locking you in this apartment.”
Cassian looks satisfied with that. Talon shrugs like he’s willing to go along with it simply because he has nothing better to do.
I realize both of them most likely know how to break locks.
I lock them in anyway.
Regret finds me for the third time as I walk through the hospital doors, badge clipped to my coat, expression carefully neutral, every muscle in my face arranged into something presentable. Inside is a different story. Inside, there is nothing but a quiet, steady reminder that there is no going back now.
No going back at all.
My badge chirps as I pass through the side entrance. I move down the familiar corridor toward the break room, timing it perfectly, and spot Dr. Marisa Havel immediately.
Marisa is hunched over a plastic cup of burnt coffee, sprinkling powdered creamer into it with the resigned focus of someone who knows this might be the only thing standing between her and total collapse. She is chronically tired. The kind that settles into bone and carves dark circles so deep into a person’s face they start to look permanent.
