Page 89 of Vital Signs

"I'm talking about a research participant who willingly signed comprehensive consent forms." Wright tapped the documents in Yuri's hands. "Forms that explicitly grant ownership of biological specimens to our research program."

Then Hunter stepped forward, putting himself between me and Wright. His body language shifted—nurse to soldier. The man who'd survived COVID wards and killed in fight rings.

"Let me make something clear," Hunter said, voice deadly quiet. "Tyler was my friend. He came to me for medical advice. I told him to stop your trials. He ignored me because you convinced him it was safe."

Wright's expression didn't change. "Patient noncompliance—"

"He died thinking he'd failed." Hunter's hands clenched into fists. "Died believing his body was wrong, that the adverse reactions were his fault, that if he'd just tried harder, he'd have survived your fucking experiments."

"I assure you—"

"I watched my patients die on ventilators," Hunter continued, voice rising. "Held their hands while they drowned in their own lungs. And I couldn't save them. But you?" He took a step closer. "You CHOSE to kill Tyler. Chose to increase his dosage when you knew it would destroy him. Not to save lives. To collect data."

"Mr. Song, I understand you're upset, but emotional outbursts—"

"I'm not upset." Hunter's smile was terrible. "I'm making a promise. Tyler died alone in the snow, thinking nobody cared. But we care. And we're going to make sure everyone knows what you did."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a guarantee."

Wright adjusted his glasses. "I understand you're emotionally invested, Mr. Song, but your history of substance abuse hardly qualifies you to evaluate medical research protocols."

Hunter's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. Wright had found the perfect spot to dig his knife, twisting Hunter's shame against him.

Annie returned, standing beside Yuri. "Our lawyer has instructed us not to release the body until he's reviewed the paperwork."

"This is becoming tedious." Wright tucked the papers into his portfolio. "The subject signed everything voluntarily. All procedures followed IRB protocols."

"The subject?" Something snapped inside me as the word left his lips again. Heat rushed up my spine, setting fire to rational thought. "His name was Tyler Graham. He was twenty-six years old. He had dreams. He had a life. And you KILLED him!"

Wright's eyes remained cold and dismissive. The exact same expression Roche had worn while documenting my captivity. "I understand you've had some mental health challenges, Mr. Vasiliev." Wright's voice. Roche's voice. They merged, separated, merged again. "Your experiences in Paris were unfortunate—"

Flash of a camera. Roche's voice commanded poses. Not here—Athens, funeral home—but the memories blurred.

Wright's voice droned on, but the words kept sliding off my brain. Paris kept bleeding in at the edges—Roche's voice mixingwith Wright's, the funeral home lights too clinical, too bright, too much like the studio.

I lunged toward Wright—toward Roche—toward every man who'd ever treated me like property. Rage blinded me to everything except the need to make him HURT.

Security personnel intercepted me. Hands on my arms. Spinning me around. Slamming me against—

No. Not again. Not like Roche. Not restrained while they—

"Misha!" Hunter's voice cut through the panic. He yanked me free of the security guards and put his hands on my face. "Look at me. Right now."

I focused on his eyes. Brown, familiar, concerned. Not Roche. Not Wright. Hunter.

"Breathe," he commanded, voice steady despite the chaos. "Count backward from ten."

"Ten," I gasped. "Nine. Eight."

The room stopped spinning. Paris stayed in Paris. I was here in Athens, and Hunter was with me.

But the rage remained. Pure and clean and righteous.

"You don't own him!" I shouted, straining against the hands holding me back. "You don't own any of us!"

Hunter grabbed me from behind, pulling me away from the security team. "Misha, stop. He's not worth it."