Page 109 of Fractured Loyalties
That’s surgical.
The mug in my hand goes cold before I realize I’m not drinking from it. I set it down and take a breath that doesn’t settle right in my chest.
Whoever it is, they’re close enough to know what I’ve touched.
And if they’re going after my files, they’re not looking for my patients.
They’re looking for me.
I back out of the interface and close the panel like nothing happened.
Because if someone’s watching, they’ll see nothing.
And that’s exactly what I want them to see.
I go to Elias’s office. Not to touch anything. Just to sit.
The chair still remembers the shape of him. There’s a jacket draped over the back, collar bent from where he always grips it in one hand before he puts it on. I drag it over my lap like armor and pull my knees up into the seat.
I stare at the dark screens until the air settles around me again. Until my thoughts stop racing and start organizing.
I don’t know who’s reaching.
But I know one thing.
Elias won’t let them reach far.
And until then, I’ll be ready to meet them at the edge of the wire.
I don’t know how long I sit there.
The screens stay black. The hum of the house, constant. Comforting in that strange way only Elias’s tech can be—like it’s keeping secrets on my behalf. Outside, the light shifts. Warmer now. Later. I should eat. I should shower. Maybe even head to the clinic. I should pretend things are normal.
But I don’t.
Instead, I scan.
I retrace the intrusion paths from the clinic node. I look for logic threads. Someone’s watching the data like a pulse—probing the edges, waiting for the moment it spikes.
They want me to react.
But I won’t.
Not yet.
I close the terminal and finally move. Shower. Clothes. Something neutral. Comfortable but inconspicuous. Layers I can shed if I need to. Something Elias taught me without ever saying a word: always dress like you might have to run, or fight.
I tie my hair back. Loose but firm. A low knot. Practical.
Then I walk the house.
I check the locks, even though I know Elias already has. I trace the line of windows, noting the slight fingerprint on the sill near the back office. Mine. From yesterday. Still, I wipe it clean.
Habit. Or maybe defiance.
I reach the bedroom Elias gave me. The one he quietly made mine without asking, without needing to. I don’t usually treat it like a place I belong. But today, I need to. I need to remind myself who I’ve been—what I’ve survived.
At the far end, tucked under the window like an afterthought, is a low chest. Plain. Wide. The kind of thing you’d expect to find spare blankets in.
