Chapter 06 The Edge of Control

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. St. Clair. The 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. St. 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.