***Ten years earlier.***
Lucian.
James finds me in the records annex at half past ten at night, which is exactly the kind of hour James Hart operates in — after the Institute has gone quiet enough that nobody notices who's still walking its halls.
"You look terrible," he mutters, which is rich, coming from a man who hasn't slept properly in a month by the look of him. Grey under his eyes. A folder pressed flat against his side like it might try to leave if he loosened his grip.
"Long shift." I don't look up from the chart I'm reviewing. Second-year resident work, the kind nobody remembers doing once they're a surgeon, but somebody has to chase the paperwork the attendings won't.
"What's wrong?"
"Why does something have to be wrong?" He shoots back at me, almost defensive.
"Because
