Page 7 of Fractured Devotion (Tainted Souls #1)

I watch the sky shift from ashen gray to a faint, golden hush from my apartment balcony, a mug of cooling black tea cupped in my palms. The warmth barely touches my fingers.

It’s been close to a week since Alec reappeared in my life, and still, the ripple hasn’t settled.

He haunts the corridors now like a question I’m too tired to answer.

I see him sometimes, moving through the clinic with the same worn patience and the same gaze that used to read my silences better than anyone.

But I can’t let that fracture open again. Not now. Not with everything unraveling beneath the surface.

I finish my tea in a single swallow and head inside.

My apartment is minimal, with concrete walls, monochrome furniture, and one half-dead ficus I keep forgetting to water.

It sits by the window like a neglected thought.

I pull on a tailored coat, swipe my keycard from the dish, and lock the door behind me.

The walk to the clinic takes less than five minutes.

The building looms ahead, glass panels reflecting a pale sky, steel veins cutting across its facade like surgical incisions.

Inside, I make my way to the cognitive lab, nodding to a few early staffers who know better than to engage. The hall smells heavily of disinfectant, and the click of my heels echoes off the polished floors. My office is just as I left it: pristine, untouched, and silent.

I don’t sit immediately. Instead, I hover at the edge of the room, staring at the screensavers flickering on the wall monitors. My reflection appears briefly—a ghost in a sterile landscape.

Mara buzzes in. “Good morning, Dr. Varon. The new interns are assembling in the observation room.”

I nod, shifting my stance. “Has security confirmed their clearance files yet? That clearance should’ve come through days ago.”

“Yes, ma’am. I triple-checked. One of them, Harper DuVall, was top of her class at Adlington. Very eager.”

Of course she is.

I dismiss Mara with a nod and make my way to the observation room.

The interns stand in a loose half-circle, some stiff with nerves, others already trying to look important. I watch them for a moment through the one-way glass before entering. My presence cuts through the low buzz of conversation, and they turn, their faces lifting, eyes wide.

“You’re here to learn,” I begin, my voice low and measured. “This facility operates on precision. We do not tolerate ego, hesitation, or unauthorized deviation from protocol. If you’re not capable of following those three simple rules, leave now.”

Silence.

They stay.

My gaze finds Harper. She doesn’t flinch under my stare. Her eyes are too wide, too bright, and too full of something dangerous: admiration. She reminds me of myself, years ago, before I learned to wear silence like a mask..

“Dr. Varon,” she says, her voice soft, “It’s an honor to be working under you.”

I blink once. “We’ll see if that remains true.”

A faint shuffle from behind Harper draws my attention to the others—four of them in total. A lanky boy with sunken cheeks and ink-stained fingertips clears his throat.

“I’m Keiran Blight,” he offers quickly. “Excited to be here. Really.” His voice cracks mid-sentence, and he winces.

Next to him, a girl with auburn curls and sharp cheekbones smiles with the kind of confidence only the untested have. “Nova Chantel. I’ve reviewed all your published neural displacement theories, Dr. Varon. Twice.”

“Once would have sufficed,” I reply, my expression unreadable.

The final intern—a short, broad-shouldered individual in oversized glasses—nods silently. They don’t offer a name, just clench their jaw like this moment means more than they’ll admit.

“Shadow Mara until otherwise directed,” I say, letting the weight of my gaze sweep over all of them. “And stay out of restricted corridors. Especially Sublevel C.”

They murmur acknowledgments, shifting in place like they’ve just realized what they’ve signed up for.

“Dismissed,” I say, turning on my heel. The room exhales behind me, but I don’t look back.

I exit the briefing room and head down the hall, past the sterilized stretch of corridor that hums with artificial calm.

The lights above hum faintly, a syncopated rhythm I’ve long stopped noticing.

As I near the observation wing, I inhale slowly, centering myself for what’s next.

Time to dive into the mess of minds waiting on the other side of the glass.

I reach the sealed chamber doors and swipe my access card. They hiss open. The day begins.

In the observation chamber, I guide Subject 17 through another round of emotional recall drills. The room is darkened except for the monitor glow, casting a clinical sheen on every movement.

“Focus on the image,” I instruct him, my gaze locked on his micro-expressions through the observation glass. “Tell me what it brings up for you.”

The boy’s jaw trembles. His lips part, then close again. He blinks, slowly.

“What did he whisper in your closet?” he mutters, his voice barely audible.

The words knock the breath from my lungs.

My hand freezes mid-note. I stare at him, unsure if I actually heard what I think I did. My voice falters. “Repeat that?”

He doesn’t respond. He just stares blankly at the wall, his eyes unfocused.

I end the session immediately, and the monitors blink back to idle as the orderlies guide him out.

Back in the corridor, I press a hand to the wall, grounding myself. My throat is tight. It could’ve been my imagination. A projection. But I know the cadence of those words. I’ve lived with them clawing at the edges of my memory for years.

And now they’ve escaped.

Somehow, I’m certain of one thing. That voice wasn’t his.

The rest of the day bleeds through clinical tasks, data streams, and procedural reviews.

I review an incident report flagged by Kade Lorran—something about a corrupted firewall during our recent surveillance glitch.

The details are vague, but what catches my attention is a backdoor protocol that shouldn’t exist.

I encrypt the file and move it to my private cache.

When I return to my office, Harper is waiting just outside, hugging a tablet to her chest.

“Is there something you need, Ms. DuVall?”

She fidgets, then extends the tablet. “I ran some follow-up algorithms on Subject 58’s neuro-echo pattern. I thought you might want to review the deviation curves.”

I take the tablet. The work is clean. Overeager, but not sloppy.

“Next time,” I say, “wait until you’re asked.”

Her smile falters, then brightens again. “Yes, Dr. Varon. Thank you.”

I close the door behind me.

Evening drapes itself over the windows before I realize how late it is. I power down my systems, but the screen lingers longer than it should before going black. There’s static fuzz and a flicker. Then nothing.

I stare at my reflection one last time, trying to find the fracture Alec saw.

But I’m not broken.

I’m just unfinished.

The walk back to my apartment is short but restless. The air outside is cooler than it was this morning, tinged with the sterile scent of rain that never quite fell. As I turn the corner past the clinic’s east wing, the sky fades from bruised dusk into a deeper, haunted navy.

Inside, the silence settles around me like a second skin. I set the tablet down, slip off my shoes, and retreat to the window. I don’t journal tonight, and I don’t check the feeds. I just stand there, watching my reflection grow fainter in the pane until all that’s left is my silhouette.

The words from earlier loop in my head like a recording stuck in a groove. What did he whisper in your closet?

I clench my jaw. I don’t flinch.

But I know this isn’t over. Something is reaching back through time and scraping at the layers I’ve buried. And whoever or whatever is behind it, they’re getting closer.

This story isn’t done with me yet.