"You're afraid of me."

He moved closer as he spoke. Close enough that she could smell the cedar on him.

Dominic reached out and pinched her chin, tilting it up. Her head was forced back. Her throat exposed.

His thumb pressed down on her lower lip.

"All talk."

She raised her hand to slap his away. He caught her wrist.

"You're shaking."

She tried to pull free. He held on tighter.

"I hate you."

"Lots of people hate me. One more doesn't make a difference."

He let go suddenly. Avery stumbled back a step and hit the door.

He stood there watching her, like a cat watching a mouse run two steps and stop.

"Your heart is racing. You'd better make sure you can still aim straight."

He turned, picked up a pair of medical gloves from the tray on the desk, and tossed them to her.

Avery caught them. She had no idea what was happening.

"You-"

"What did you think?" He looked back at her, smirking. "You thought I called you here to sleep with you?"

Dominic gave her a slow once over, then turned away with a soft snort.

"I'm not interested in stiff women."

Before Avery could react, he turned back and pushed open the metal box on the desk.

A syringe sat inside. Pale yellow liquid.

This drug... it was the same one she had injected him with yesterday.

The drug was still in trial phase. High risk. Highly addictive.

It couldn't be given this frequently.

He was the underground ruler of Obsidian City. Of course he could get his hands on this drug. But she wasn't about to risk losing her medical license by injecting him again.

"This drug hasn't finished clinical trials. You can inject it yourself. You don't need me."

"But I need someone who can read my heart rate and knows how much to push."

Dominic turned his face toward her. His gaze cut like a knife. "You know my case. You're good at this. And you did fine yesterday, didn't you?"

He slid the syringe to the edge of the desk. The metallic scrape cut through the dead silence.

"This drug is addictive, Dominic. You're playing with your life."

"Then don't inject me. If-" He walked toward her. His shadow pressed in with every step. "You can fix my chronic insomnia first."

Avery didn't respond. She kept breathing. Deep breaths. Her fingers clenched tight.

Dominic stopped in front of her. He looked down.

"Your brother's medication runs out tomorrow at ten in the morning."

Avery's blood turned to ice.

"Inject me or give me a plan. Your choice."

Dominic reached out. His rough fingertips brushed along the side of her face, barely there. A shiver ran through her.

Avery's palms were clenched. Between the threat of losing the medication and the risk of an uncontrolled drug, she didn't step back. Instead, she stepped forward.

Her fingertip drove into the nerve depression just below his collarbone. She pushed with all her strength.

Dominic's tall frame went rigid.

The blunt pain and numbness from the compressed deep nerve swept through half his body in an instant. His grip on her hand weakened.

"This dosage will build your tolerance. When that happens, no one can save you."

Avery looked up at him.

"I'm taking the drug. You'll get your plan tomorrow. As for whether you sleep tonight? That's up to you."

Before he could recover from the physiological numbness, Avery snatched the syringe off the desk, turned, and pushed out the door.

It wasn't until cold air from the hallway hit her collar that she realized even her fingertips were burning.

When she walked into her room, Dorothea was still awake.

The little girl sat on the floor, hugging her rabbit. A piece of drawing paper lay in front of her. When she heard the door, she looked up at Avery, then looked back down and flipped the paper over.

"Mommy, the people inside the walls are still walking."

Avery walked over and sat down next to her. She looked at her daughter's fingers. Small. Pressed against the floor, like she was listening. Avery reached out and took the little hand in hers.

"Dorothea, Mommy needs to tell you something."

The little girl looked at her. Her big eyes sparkled.

"Some of the people here are helping us. Some aren't. Mommy has to make a lot of decisions every day. Some are right. Some are wrong. But no matter what, Mommy has to make them."

Dorothea blinked. She nodded slowly, like she sort of understood.

"What you hear, you tell only Mommy. I'll decide what to do with it. Okay?"

"What about that uncle? Is he helping us?"

Avery knew exactly who her daughter meant. She was quiet for a moment.

"He's helping Mommy. But that doesn't mean he's helping you."

"Why?"

"Because what he wants isn't the same as what Mommy wants."

Dorothea hugged her rabbit a little tighter. She rested her chin on its head. She looked at Avery for a long time.

"Is his head still a mess?" The little girl pointed at her own.

Avery didn't answer. She reached out and tucked Dorothea's hair behind her ear. "Mommy will handle it."

Dorothea didn't ask more. She buried her face in the rabbit's fur. After a while, her breathing slowed.

Avery picked her up, put her in bed, and pulled up the blanket. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her daughter's face. So small. So quiet. Her eyelashes were long, like two little fans.

She hadn't injected Dominic like he asked. Instead, she used the vagus nerve anchoring technique. Fingertip pressure on the nerve point below his collarbone. Stable tactile guidance to regulate his breathing.

Within moments, his overstressed autonomic nervous system had shifted from extreme agitation into sleep. She knew that for his severe PTSD-related insomnia, it was only a temporary fix. But at least, before he did something desperate and destroyed himself, she could keep him steady.

She pulled the USB drive from her pocket. The one she had gotten from Wenger. She plugged it into her computer.

Inside were seven full years of Dominic's treatment records.

The screen lit up. Files arranged by year. The earliest entry was from seven years ago. Dominic was twenty-two.

The first document was an admission record. No name. Just a number. The medical history column read: Stress response disorder. Sleep deprivation. Somatic symptoms. The treatment column had two words: Micro electric shock.

Her fingers stopped on the mouse.

She scrolled down.

Next page. Then the next. Wenger's notes, dense. Medications, reactions, dosage adjustments. Some pages had yellowed edges, like they had been turned many times.

She turned to one page. A diagram of a human body. Front and back. Red dots marked the wrists, the chest, the inner knees. A line of small handwriting beside it: Vagal nerve sensitivity test. Used for forced sedation and emotional blocking.

Avery's breath caught.

The spot on the wrist. The star-shaped scar. She recognized it.

So it wasn't an ordinary scar.

She looked down at her hand. The same fingers that had pressed below his collarbone. His skin's warmth still lingered. Her stomach turned. Bile rose in her throat. She covered her mouth and gagged. Nothing came out.

She closed the laptop. The room went dark.

The next morning, Avery went to his room as usual.

When she pushed the door open, Dominic was already awake. He sat on the edge of the bed, hair still messy. When he heard the door, he looked up.

"Morning," she said.

He didn't answer.

Avery walked over and stood in front of him. She reached out and pressed her fingers to his wrist. His pulse was better than yesterday.

She let go and stepped back.

"No anchoring today. You slept enough last night, so you won't need a nap during the day. Let's adjust the plan. We'll start with-"

"What did you look at last night?" Dominic cut her off.

Her fingers paused. "The files on the USB."

"What was in them?"

Avery looked at him. His expression hadn't changed. He was just waiting.

"Treatment records. Medications, dosages. Wenger's notes." Her voice was flat.

"And?"

"Nothing else. The later files were locked. I didn't have access."

He didn't push. He stood up and walked to the window, his back to her.

"Tell me today's plan."

Avery nodded. She explained the plan she had written the night before. Breathing exercises. Daytime nap rhythm. No drugs. No needles.

While she talked, he kept his back to her. He didn't turn around. When she finished, she waited.

"Dominic."

"Mm."

"You need rest today. No work. No meetings."

"I know."

She stood there, looking at his back. His shoulders were broad. A crease ran down his shirt from his shoulder blade to his waist. She thought of the red dots on the diagram. Something clogged in her chest.

The next two days, Avery continued his treatment as usual. The eighth session. In her opinion, it was neither good nor bad.

On the third day, after treatment ended, Avery went back to her room. Dorothea grabbed her leg.

"Mommy, you're different today."

Avery's fingers tightened. She closed the door, sat down, and pulled Dorothea into her lap. "Different how?"

Dorothea tilted her head and looked at her. She didn't explain. Then she stopped suddenly and turned to look at the door. She held her breath and didn't move.

Avery followed her gaze. The door was closed. The hallway was quiet.

"Dorothea?"

The little girl didn't answer. She hugged her rabbit tighter, then lowered her head and buried her face in its fur.

Three seconds later, a knock came at the door. Light. Two taps.

Avery opened it. Dominic stood in the doorway. He didn't come in. His eyes went to Dorothea first, then moved to Avery's face.

"What is it?"

Dominic studied her. "You changed the plan today."

It wasn't a question.

Avery's heart slowed by a beat. "Just an adjustment."

"Did you." He smiled slightly. "You avoided the collarbone. Why?"

The air went quiet.

She stared at him. She didn't speak.

He walked inside. He picked up the USB drive from the desk and held it in his palm.

"Do you think," he said, "that you 'got' this from Wenger?"

He stepped closer. The distance collapsed.

"Do you really think I would let a variable control me for seven years?"

Avery's pupils contracted.

"Then tell me," he said slowly, "why wasn't the first layer of that USB encrypted?"

Last night, she had thought it was strange. Such sensitive files, and they opened right away. She had assumed Wenger hadn't had time to secure them.

"Because I made it accessible," he said.

She finally understood. She hadn't been investigating him. He had let her investigate him.

"What did you want me to see?" Her voice tightened.

Dominic looked at her. He didn't answer right away. He reached out and touched the spot below her collarbone. The spot she had avoided.

"I wanted to see," he said, "if you would use Wenger's method."

Her breathing broke.

He paused. His voice dropped lower.

"To kill me."

Avery stood there. She didn't move. Her fingers were still pressed to the spot his fingertips had just touched.

Avery couldn't sleep.

She watched the sky bleed from ink-black to a bruised, pale gray. She lay there, eyes wide, as Dominic's words played on a loop in her mind: "I wanted to see if you would use Wenger's method. To kill me."

Beside her, Dorothea's chest rose and fell in a rhythmic, innocent slumber. Avery brushed a stray hair from her daughter's forehead. Her own fingertips were ice-cold.

A sharp double-knock broke the silence.

"Dr. Clair. Boss has canceled today's appointment."

Avery froze. "Where is he?"

"In his study. He gave strict orders not to be disturbed."

Her chest tightened. After last night's confrontation, he hadn't pressed her. He hadn't threatened or tested her. He had simply... discarded her. This sudden silence was more unnerving than any interrogation.

She stood by the window, peeling the curtain back just enough to see the courtyard. Sunlight shattered against the fountain into a thousand jagged pieces. Everything looked peaceful, as if the midnight standoff had never happened.

Dorothea stirred. Clutching her rabbit, she padded over and wrapped a tiny hand around Avery's finger.

"Mommy," the little girl whispered, her expression hauntingly serious. "That uncle... he's unhappy."

Avery looked down at her. Dorothea was staring toward the door with an intensity that didn't belong on a child's face.

"I'm going to the study," Avery said softly.

As she turned to leave, Dorothea tugged at her shirt. The girl shook her head slowly, her eyes locking onto Avery's for a long, heavy second. Then she let go, hugged her rabbit tighter, and turned away. She didn't look back.

Avery stopped before the heavy oak doors of the study. She knocked twice.

Silence. She tried again.

"Dominic."

Still nothing.

She pushed the door open. The room was a tomb of shadows, the heavy drapes cutting off the world. Only a single desk lamp was lit, carving out the sharp, brutal lines of Dominic's profile.

He was sitting there, twirling a syringe between his fingers-the very one she had refused to use on him. The pale yellow liquid caught the light, swaying like a rhythmic, golden trap.

His movement stopped the moment she entered. He tossed the syringe into a drawer and leaned back into the darkness.

"Who gave you permission to enter?"

She held up the key card. "You did. Yesterday."

He stared at her, saying nothing. Dark shadows bruised the skin under his eyes; his collar was rumpled, his usual lethal composure slightly frayed.

Avery had guided him through a relaxation exercise last night. She had watched him drift off. Clearly, his peace hadn't lasted.

"You didn't sleep," she noted.

"I slept fine," he countered, his voice gravelly. "Until I woke up."

She stepped closer, invading his space. "By what?"

He didn't answer. His gaze shifted past her, lost in the void outside the window.

Avery noticed the documents scattered across the desk-the folder with her clinic's logo.

"Dominic... Drake told me about the hospital. My brother's medication has been restored. Thank you."

"It was part of the deal."

She watched his broad shoulders, the tension radiating off him. "You said if I treated you, you'd save him."

"Is that why you're here? To check on your payment?"

"No." Avery's voice dropped, turning clinical yet firm. "I'm here to keep my word. As your psychiatrist, I'm going to treat you. But not with Wenger's poison. We're doing this my way."

Dominic turned, his eyes narrowing as he studied her.

"I need the complete records," she pressed. "Level Two access."

His fingers twitched. "You've already seen enough."

"I've seen the sanitized version. I need the truth."

Silence reclaimed the room. The lamp cast him in stark chiaroscuro-half a saint, half a monster.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because," she said, refusing to flinch, "you're starting to trust me."

The air went still.

He reached for a USB drive. As his fingers brushed the metal, they began to betray him. It wasn't just a tremor; his entire hand was convulsing. He slammed his fist shut, knuckles turning white, but the shaking wouldn't stop. His breathing turned jagged, his throat working as he tried to swallow the mounting panic.

He pressed his hand against his knee, eyes snapping shut.

After a brutal moment, he forced himself to slide the drive to the edge of the desk. "Take it," he rasped.

She picked it up, but he didn't pull away. His hand remained suspended in the air, grasping at nothing.

"Dominic-"

"Don't," he hissed. "Don't ask."

Avery turned toward the door, but a sickening thud stopped her.

She whirled around. Dominic had slammed both fists onto the desk. A glass had shattered under the force, blood immediately blooming from his knuckles.

Then, he began to count. His voice was low, the numbers tumbling out faster and faster, a desperate mantra against the dark.

Drake burst in from the hall, moving toward his boss, but Dominic stopped him with a single, lethal glare.

Avery didn't leave. She stood her ground.

"Dr. Clair," Drake warned, his voice low. "He needs-"

"I know what he needs." She cut him off and stepped back into the lion's den.

Drake blocked her path. "Going in there now is suicide. You'll only make it worse."

"And staying out will let him break every bone in his hand."

Their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. Drake stepped aside.

Avery approached the desk and crouched beside Dominic. She didn't speak. She didn't offer platitudes. She simply placed her hand over his, pinning his bloodied knuckles to the wood.

The counting stopped.

He kept his head down, his breath hitching, but the tremors slowly began to die down under her touch.

Her eyes fell on his wrist-on the star-shaped scar.

Up close, it was hideous. The edges were raised and irregular, like flesh that had been burned and re-burned. It wasn't an accident.

She remembered the diagram in the file. The Vagal Nerve Sensitivity Test. This was the exact spot.

She stayed there, anchored to him, until his breathing leveled out.

Finally, Dominic lifted his head. His eyes were dark, haunted. He looked at her for a heartbeat, then tore his gaze away.

"Get out."

Avery stood, walked out, and pulled the door shut behind her.

Drake was waiting in the hall, silent as a grave. She didn't say a word to him either as she retreated to her room.

Dorothea was still tucked in bed. Avery sat on the edge, plugging the drive into her laptop.

The files were meticulously named by date-Wenger's signature style. But at the bottom sat a file with a scrambled string of characters.

She stared at it. Wenger didn't make mistakes. She reversed the string in her mind. A date. And at the end, a single letter: D.

Her heart skipped. The ring from the explosion site... the engraving inside was also a D.

She punched in the restored date as the password.

The screen flickered to life.

Level Two was a nightmare of data. At the bottom was a hidden folder filled with surveillance footage of Dominic's treatment room.

She opened the earliest file.

Red text flashed in the corner: Project 030 | Subject 047.

In the video, a younger Dominic sat on a couch, limp as a marionette. Wenger stood over him, fixing electrodes to his forehead. Without checking the monitors, Wenger twisted the dial.

The current shot past the safety line.

Dominic let out a choked, muffled sound. His body lurched, hands clawing at the armrests, but he didn't dare move.

Wenger leaned in, whispering something-a command, a threat.

But it was the shadow in the corner that stopped Avery's heart.

A silhouette stood there, watching. Unmoving.

Every time Wenger tortured him with the settings, the shadow just loomed.

Avery stared at the screen, her breath hitching. Wenger had said he was just a piece on the board.

She thought of the wax seal. The shadow in the video. She didn't know his name, but she remembered her own name listed in Project 030. A cold sweat broke out across her neck.

She dragged the progress bar forward, video after video. Her skin crawled.

This wasn't medicine. It was a lobotomy of the soul.

Avery reached up, her fingers trembling as she touched the side of her own neck. Right here. The spot Wenger had marked for 'Candidate A.'

If Dominic was 047, then she was...

She tried to shove the thought away, but the realization took root. She hadn't been sent here by chance. She had been delivered.

She closed the laptop. The room plummeted into darkness.

At the end of the hallway, Dorothea stood in the shadows, her rabbit dangling from her hand. She was as still as a statue.

She wasn't looking at her mother. She was staring toward the study, her tiny lips moving in a ghostly whisper.

"He's going to break today," the child said, her voice like a chilling sigh.

Dorothea was still standing in the hallway, a tiny, spectral figure in the gloom.

Avery walked over and scooped her up. The child's skin was like ice; there was no telling how long she'd been rooted there.

"Sweetheart, why are you out of bed?"

Dorothea didn't answer. She buried her face in the crook of Avery's neck, her stuffed rabbit crushed between them.

"Mommy," she whispered. "He stopped."

Avery paused, her heart skipping. "Who stopped?"

"The one who was counting."

Avery carried her back, tucked her in, and pulled the duvet up to her chin. Dorothea blinked, clutching her rabbit, and after a long moment, her breathing finally leveled out into a fragile sleep.

Avery sat on the edge of the bed, watching her daughter's face. So small. So eerily quiet.

Before the first rays of dawn could break, a sharp rap sounded at the door. It was Drake.

"Dr.Clair. We have a situation."

She followed him into the hall. Drake's jaw was set, his expression grim.

"The surveillance in the east wing went dark for twenty minutes. The breach originated from your room. Your key card was cloned this morning."

Avery looked down at the card in her hand. She'd used it to enter Dominic's study earlier. It hadn't left her pocket since.

"Dorothea-"

"The child is fine. The hallway is locked down," Drake reassured her, though his voice dropped an octave. "But that's not the worst of it."

He handed her his phone. A message glowed on the screen:

Julian's primary physician was replaced this morning. The new doctor immediately altered his medication logs. The medical trust account has been frozen.

Avery's grip tightened until her knuckles ached. It was a trap-a blatant, jagged hook. Julian was the bait, and they were reeling her in.

If she went, she was walking into the lion's mouth. If she stayed, her brother would pay the price in blood.

She turned and marched toward Dominic's study.

She pushed the door open without knocking. He was standing by the window, already dressed in a sharp, dark suit that screamed power. He had just ended a call.

"Your security was hacked," Avery said, her voice tight.

"I know."

"The access came from my room-"

"I know." He turned, his movement stiff, and handed her a remote.

The wall monitors flickered to life. Two black SUVs sat idling outside the main gate. They didn't move. No one got out. They just loomed there like vultures.

"My East Pier shipment was intercepted. The south side logistics are blocked. Two of my offshore accounts were flagged and frozen," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "And your brother's doctor was swapped out an hour ago."

"But you just fixed that yesterday-"

"They're cowards hiding in the shadows," he cut her off. "It's easy to break things when you're invisible."

He handed her a separate file.

"Your brother is holding something. A backup from Wenger. They're coming for him because they need your signature for the authorization. They want you there, and they want that data."

Avery froze. "How could Julian have a backup from Wenger?"

"Wenger gave it to him," Dominic said flatly. "Wenger knew he was a dead man walking. He entrusted his most dangerous secret to someone who couldn't speak. Silence is the ultimate vault."

"What's in the backup?"

"I don't know. But they're moving fast enough to risk a direct hit on me to get it."

A small sound echoed from the hallway. Avery stepped out to find Dorothea standing by the study door, clutching her rabbit and staring through the crack.

"Sweetheart-"

Dorothea wasn't looking at her mother. She was staring into the room, toward Dominic. "Uncle Julian is not okay," she whispered.

Avery quickly ushered Dorothea back to her room, then returned to the study. Dominic hadn't moved.

"You took her back," he noted. It wasn't a question; it was an observation of her maternal instinct.

"I did."

He was silent for a beat, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the window frame. Avery noticed something off-his gaze was fixed about five inches to the left of where she was standing.

He raised a hand to rub his brow, a sharp, frustrated gesture.

"Don't get the wrong idea," he rasped. "I just don't like people playing games on my turf."

He turned to Drake. "Get the cars. Notify the hospital team. We proceed as planned. Assign two men to the third floor-they don't leave the child's side for a second."

Drake nodded and vanished.

Avery looked at Dominic, her doctor's eye narrowing. "Your condition-"

"Is nothing compared to being handled like a pawn," he snapped, straightening his cuffs. "The rats in the dark need to be smoked out before I can crush them."

His gaze slid past her face again. He didn't correct it. He simply shoved his hands into his pockets and walked out.

The hospital was unnervingly quiet. The white walls bled cold light under the fluorescent tubes, and the air tasted of sharp bleach.

Avery led the way, with Dominic trailing a step behind. She noticed that as they stepped into the elevator, he reached out to steady himself against the wall. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the railing, letting go the instant the doors opened.

Julian's room was on the third floor. The door swung open. The bed was stripped and empty.

"Julian-"

"In the next room."

The voice came from behind her. Avery spun around to see a man in his forties with gold-rimmed glasses. Dr. Greene.

She remembered him from an academic conference last month. Wenger had introduced them, claiming Greene was "fascinated" by her work on C-PTSD. Now, the memory felt like a premonition.

Dominic stood in the hall, a dark, silent sentinel. Avery looked back at him. He gave her a sharp, imperceptible nod. Only then did she step into Greene's office.

Dominic leaned against the wall outside and dialed Drake. "Lock the exits on the third floor. Switch to the backup feed. I want eyes on every soul in this building."

"Copy that."

He hung up and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the light at the end of the hall dragged a ghostly trail across his vision. He didn't blink. He just stood by the door, listening.

Inside the office, Greene pushed a folder across the desk.

"The new treatment plan. Sign here, and we can begin immediately."

Avery picked up the pen, her hand hovering over the line. She flipped to the second page. A line of fine print caught her eye: Data usage rights transfer.

"What is this?"

"Standard clause."

"There is nothing standard about transferring my research data for a patient's treatment."

"Hospital policy-"

"This isn't policy." Avery slammed the folder shut. "Who are you working for?"

Greene's professional smile curdled. He took off his glasses, polished them slowly, and put them back on.

"Dr. Clair, your brother's account is frozen. If you don't sign, he misses his dose today. Think very carefully about his life."

The door flew open.

Dominic walked in, his presence instantly shrinking the room. He sat across from Greene as if he owned the building.

Greene's face paled, then reset into a mask of feigned ignorance. "And you are...?"

"You know exactly who I am," Dominic said, his voice a low, lethal silk. "You've known since your first day in this dirty business."

Greene said nothing.

"That data transfer," Dominic said, sliding the folder back toward the doctor. "Tell me who the end-user is."

"I have no idea what you're talking about-"

"You have thirty seconds." Dominic leaned back, his eyes cold and predatory. "After that, I can't guarantee what my men will do to your friends in this building."

Greene's fingers twitched.

"Twenty seconds."

Greene looked at Avery, then at the monster sitting across from him. He took off his glasses and set them trembling on the desk.

"I only know a codename," Greene whispered. "Devil."

Avery felt a chill settle in her bones. Dominic didn't move, but his eyes darkened.

Suddenly, Greene's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and turned the color of ash.

CRASH!

The office window exploded inward. Glass shrapnel rained down. Avery dove for cover, a stray shard slicing a thin, stinging line across her cheek.

She looked up. A figure in a black hoodie and a tactical mask stood on the shattered windowsill, a suppressed weapon leveled at her.

"Don't move," the figure rasped.

"Wenger said we have to bring Avery back alive."