Page 101 of Beyond Protection
Phase Two: Stillness training. Subject accustomed to constant motion. Must learn proper display posture. Start with fifteen-minute intervals. Increase duration as conditioning improves.
Eamon's knee touched mine under the table. Pressure and warmth promising that I wasn't alone.
Phase Three: Remove non-original elements. Tattoos if present. Scars from improper handling. Damage from athletic career. Restore to optimal aesthetic presentation.
"Stop." The word exited my throat in a strangled cry.
Clairmont looked up.
"I need—" My hands shook. "Can I read it?"
She slid the notebook toward me. The leather was soft under my fingers. Well-cared for.
Phase Four: Documentation. Photograph from standardized positions. Catalog changes. Create permanent record of beauty properly maintained. Display conditions to be determined based on subject's cooperation level.
My vision began to blur.
Phase Five: Permanent preservation. Subject will understand his purpose. Beauty maintained through perfect stillness. No damage from use. No deterioration from time. A living exhibit. My masterwork.
I couldn't finish. The words swam before me. They coalesced into images I couldn't unsee—myself restrained, photographed, and studied.
Michael crossed the room. Took the notebook. Set it aside.
"She wrote this like a treatment plan." My voice sounded foreign to me.
"Like she already owned you," Marcus said from the window.
Silence filled the office.
"There's more," Clairmont said softly. "But I think that's enough for now."
"No." I forced myself to sit straighter. "Show me everything."
She studied me. Then nodded.
"All right, Mr. McCabe."
Clairmont pulled a blown-up calendar from the stack—December marked in red. The eighteenth had a circle around it. Underlined three times.
"Extraction date," she said. "She's been planning this down to the hour."
Marcus leaned forward. His shadow fell across the calendar. "One week before Christmas."
"Not random," Michael said. "She wanted the holidays. Wanted you emotional. Vulnerable."
My stomach turned.
"The field team is at the cabin now," Clairmont continued. "No one was there when they arrived. Early reports confirm what the receipts suggested. Fully stocked. Climate-controlled. Blackout curtains. Door locks reinforced from the outside."
"Restraints?" Eamon spoke in a calm voice. Professional. The tone meant he was three seconds from violence.
"Zip ties. Rope. Padded cuffs." Clairmont scrolled on her laptop screen. "Also sedatives. Purchased through veterinary supply contacts. Enough to keep someone unconscious for days."
"Was it—" I had to stop. Swallow. Start again. "Was it for me alive or dead?"
Everyone was quiet—like I'd lobbed a live grenade into the center of the room.
Eamon gripped my shoulder before anyone could answer.
