A Curious Contract

Morning light slipped through the blinds of Isabella's office, striping the floor and her desk in clean lines. At the center of her desk sat a thick folder, its cream-colored surface stamped with the Blackwood Enterprises seal. Her tea sat untouched, cooling in her hand.

No cover note. No signature. Just the contract.

She set the cup down quietly and rested her fingers on the folder. The paper felt heavier than it should have. Every part of her knew what this moment meant: once she opened it, there would be no pretending she hadn’t.

She opened it.

The first page held a single sentence: All knowledge comes at a price.

She read on.

Adrian had kept his word. The contract outlined full access to the Rehabilitation Society’s records, programs, facilities—even the one they called Echo Protocol. She would be allowed to observe, evaluate, and even lead sessions.

But the trade-off was written in cold, professional language. Clause after clause spelt out restrictions:

No outside communication unless cleared.

All assessments are subject to internal review.

Identities are kept hidden unless approved at the highest level.

And then, Clause 11.

Obedience to Protocol.

She read it again. Then a third time.

"The Consultant agrees to follow all internal procedures without objection, including during emergency psychological interventions, simulated emotional breakdowns, and structured reprogramming sessions."

Reprogramming.

The word sat heavy in her chest.

She pushed back from the desk and stood, pacing across the room. It wasn’t therapy. It was something else. Something dressed up in clinical terms but rooted in control.

She stopped at the window, pressing her fingertips to the cold glass. Outside, the city moved as always—traffic, people, routines. No one down there knew what was buried behind polished doors and glossy titles.

Her thoughts went to Adrian. Calm. Controlled. Charming, but not in a way she trusted. He had offered her access, but never answered. He didn’t hide his regrets—but didn’t fully share them, either.

A knock on the door.

She turned, pulse rising. "Come in."

Lily stepped inside, holding a small white envelope. "You okay? You look like you haven’t blinked in a while."

Isabella managed a thin smile. "It’s from Blackwood. The contract."

Lily walked over and flipped through a few pages. She gave a low whistle. "This doesn’t feel like a job. It feels like a trap."

"That’s not far off," Isabella replied.

"You sure about this?" Lily asked. "People like him—like them-they—can erase you with one phone call."

"I’m not going in blind," Isabella said. "But I’m not walking away either."

Lily hesitated, then handed her the envelope. "This also came for you. No return address."

Isabella opened it.

Inside was a photograph. A woman in her thirties stood by a fountain, face drawn, eyes tired. Isabella knew the face. Her mother.

On the back, a note: Echo took her voice. Will you let them do it again?

Her fingers shook. She sat down fast, breath catching in her throat. The memories returned hard and fast—her mother’s distant stares, the coldness of white hospital walls, the years of silence they never explained.

They’d said it was a breakdown.

What if it wasn’t?

She looked at the contract again. Then in the photo.

It wasn’t about Adrian anymore. It wasn’t about curiosity. This was personal.

She picked up the pen. Signed her name at the bottom of the last page.

The ink was barely dry when her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

She answered.

"Welcome inside," Adrian’s voice came, calm as ever.

"Did you send the photo?"

A pause. "No. But someone wants you to know what you’re stepping into."

"I’m not afraid."

"You should be," he said. Then softer, "That’s why you’re the right one."

The line clicked off.

Isabella leaned back. She had just stepped into something built to keep people silent.

Now it was her turn to speak.