Chapter Eight: The Serpent's Gambit: First Strike!
1577 Words
(St. Mary’s Hospital, Administrative Wing: Medical Oversight Tribunal Chamber)
Air congealed into leaden stillness—suffocating, oppressive.
A coffin-length mahogany table—polished to obsidian gloss—dominated the sepulchral chamber. Five elders presided, spines ramrod in Savile Row armor, their breast insignia glinting like glacial ore. The Foghaven Medical Tribunal—arbiters of professional life and death.
Dr. Greene slumped near the door—corpse-pallid, sweat-slicked. Fingers knotted beneath the table, nails carving crescents into his palms. Blood welled, unfelt. He dared not lift his gaze to the opposite end.
There—
Brandon Grayson.
Navy superfine wool sculpted to perfection. Gold hair helm-tight. His patrician face—a masterwork of calibrated anguish, righteous fury, and… martyred betrayal? A stained-glass saint profaned.
Documents fanned before him. One fingertip rested upon a damning page. His voice—soft, yet each syllable a venom-tipped stiletto—pierced the silence:
“Evidence. Irrefutable.” Brandon’s gaze swept the tribunal, settling on Greene’s ashen mask. “Dr. Greene. As attending physician. You witnessed. Robert Locke—cardiac arrest exceeding twenty minutes. EEG silence. All vitals nullified. Death certified.”
He leaned forward—predatory intensity.
“That orderly—Leo Yang—forced entry into the ER! Defied restraint! Pressed his hands upon the cadaver’s thorax! Performed… an unsanctioned… ritual!”
Deliberate pause. Let ritual fester—injecting eldritch chill.
“Subsequently! The deceased… ‘miraculously’ resumed cardiopulmonary function!”
Brandon surged upright—palms slamming mahogany! A lion enraged!
“Is this science?! Is this reason?! Unprecedented in medical annals! Unless—”
His eyes—scalpel-sharp—impaled Greene.
“Unless! He employed an undetectable! Cataclysmically hazardous! Proscribed substance! Conducted illicit experimentation on human remains! Masked pharmacological reactions with occult rites! Desecrated the dead! Deceived the Locke dynasty! Defiled us all!!!”
“Lies! I—” Greene’s head jerked up, lips trembling. But Brandon’s arctic stare—n***d menace and madness—stilled his tongue. The tribunal’s dawning revulsion strangled protest. Brandon’s warning echoed: One word, Greene, and your family drowns with you. The erased footage… The falsified report… His complicity.
“Dr. Greene!” The Tribunal Chairwoman—a steel-grey harridan with glacial furrows—rapped the table. “Did you witness Leo Yang’s aberrant conduct? Detect contraband? Unauthorized procedures?”
Greene shuddered. Brandon’s gaze—a constrictor’s embrace. He closed his eyes. Surrendered. “I… was… overwhelmed… Details… obscured… But… forced entry… occurred… Actions… profoundly… suspect…” Professional oath shattered. Soul bartered for survival.
Brandon’s lips flickered—microsecond triumph. Mask reinstated: gravitas incarnate. He lifted another dossier. “Nurse-Superior Marian Clark’s affidavit!” Declamation rang out. “She observed Leo Yang—in the ER’s shadowed corner—extracting unknown fluid from an onyx vial! Syringe manipulation! Furtive! Preceding his… ‘ritualistic’ intervention!”
“Furthermore!” Brandon brandished an inventory log. “ER pharmaceutical audit! One vial concentrated epinephrine—missing! One ampoule potent cardiac stimulant—vanished! Temporal correlation? Yang’s intrusion!” He slammed the proof! *c***k!* “Coincidence?!”
Tribunal faces hardened—calcifying into collective condemnation. Desecration! Illicit pharmacology! Occult obfuscation! Medical heresy! Diabolical!
“Perjury!!” Greene lurched up—livid, shaking. Epinephrine? Cardiac stimulants? Brandon’s own ‘contingency measures’! Now Yang’s theft?! “Those were—”
“Dr. Greene!” Brandon severed him—voice arctic steel, eyes lethal warning. “Temper your accusations! You were present! Why no intervention? Your negligence—equally culpable!” Shackling Greene to the sinking ship.
Greene choked—purple-faced. Collapsed into his chair. Ruined.
Brandon pivoted to the Chairwoman—decisive, imperious. “Madam Chair! Esteemed colleagues! Facts crystallize! Evidence congeals! Leo Yang—an unlicensed menial! Deployed proscribed toxins! Violated cadavers! Practiced dark arts! Egregious ethical breach! Legal desecration! Public menace! His conduct—abominable! Irredeemable!”
He inhaled—judge pronouncing doom.
“I! Brandon Grayson! Representing St. Mary’s Board of Governors! Upholding Foghaven’s medical conscience! Formally petition this Tribunal!”
“Immediate! Permanent! Revocation! Of Leo Yang’s Orderly License!”
“And! Urge law enforcement! To pursue criminal charges! Suspicion of homicide! Unlawful human experimentation! Corpse desecration! Effect! Immediate! Apprehension!!!”
(Locke Manor: The Gilded Cage)
Heavy drapes devoured light. The chamber—a twilight sarcophagus.
Leo Yang lay spilled across the vast bed—a gutted marionette. Waxen. Lips desiccated fissures. Eyes sunken crypts. Velvet coverlet trembled over his shuddering frame.
Coma. Profound.
Yet even unconscious—brow knotted in agony. Teeth ground bone-on-bone. Drenched pillow—sweat-ice.
Nightmares.
Endless.
Incandescent silver. Obsidian talons. Brimstone stench. Locke’s contorted shrieks. Thoracic conflagration. Scourging his ravaged nerves.
“Ngh… Ghh…” Inarticulate suffering leaked from his throat. A violent spasm! Agony arched his spine—fetal curl. Wounded cub.
Victor Locke stood sentinel—face storm-lashed. Summoned by Rosa. Leo’s ruin. Father’s matching unconsciousness—yet the sigil had faded. Contradictions choked him.
“Prognosis?” Victor rasped at the white-coated elder beside him—Harris, dynastic physician.
Harris’s hand trembled on his stethoscope. “Catastrophic, Master Victor. Mr. Yang’s physiology… eviscerated. Beyond depletion—cellular cataclysm! Neural static! Cryptogenic hemorrhaging! This… transcends iatrogenic injury! Resembles… internal detonation by arcane forces!” Decades of practice—nullified by this enigma.
“Will he wake?!” Victor’s impatience spiked. Father’s survival hinged on this broken tool!
“Uncertain…” Harris mopped his brow. “His vital tenacity… preternatural. But this… is critical mass. Requires epochal convalescence. Elite pharmacopeia. Yet… an anomalous resistance repels standard agents… Efficacy… negligible.”
“Incompetence!” Victor hissed—target unclear. He paced—caged predator. Leo’s torment. The sigil’s regression. Fury sought outlet.
*BRRRZZZT—!*
His pocket screamed vibration.
Victor snatched the phone—unknown caller. He thumbed accept, venom-ready. “Speak!”
A voice—hushed, panting—scraped the line. David. That cowed intern from Grayson’s orbit.
“Master Victor?! David! St. Mary’s! Cataclysm!!”
“What?!” Victor’s gut clenched.
“Leo Yang! Brandon Grayson! Tribunal hearing! Right now! License revocation! Murder charges! Illegal substances! Corpse defilement!!” David’s words tumbled—fear-propelled. “Fabricated evidence! Greene coerced! Surveillance purged! They’re erasing him!!”
“WHAT?!” Victor’s mind detonated! Grayson?! That vermin! Dared?!
“Gospel truth! Hearing concluding! Revocation imminent! Intervene! Or Yang is carrion!!” Click. David vanished—terrified.
Damn! Damn! DAMN!!!
Victor’s vision crimsoned! Rage-lion! Grayson—you necrotic fool!!!
He whirled—charged the door—halted!
Father comatose. Who ruled here? Rosa? That glacial automaton?!
He wrenched the oak portal open!
Two obsidian monoliths barred egress—impassive. Sunglasses reflecting his fury.
“Clear this path! I depart!” Victor roared.
“Regretfully, Master Victor.” Robotic monotone. “Mr. Locke’s final directive: Mr. Yang’s convalescence—absolute sanctity. Including you. Without Miss Casta’s sanction—this floor is your perimeter.”
“Bullshit!!” Victor vibrated with fury, jabbing a finger. “Grayson crucifies Yang as we speak! Deaf? Blind? MOVE!!”
“Directives are absolute. Return to your quarters.” Statuesque indifference.
“f**k!!!” Victor’s kick exploded a Ming vase! Porcelain shrapnel! He howled—a caged beast! Father! What labyrinth have you built?!
(Tribunal Chamber)
“Final vote!” The Chairwoman’s voice—funeral bell. “Motion: Permanent revocation of Leo Yang’s Orderly License. Recommendation: Criminal investigation. Affirmative votes—raise hands.”
Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish.
Four hands—swift, pitiless. The Chairwoman’s included. Eyes glacial—scorning medical apostasy.
The final elder—thin-haired, hesitant—glanced at Greene’s death-mask, then Brandon’s saintly radiance. Reluctantly. Raised his hand.
Unanimity.
Brandon’s lips—in shadow—curved. Viper fangs sinking into jugular.
Success.
First move: Eradicate the insect’s legitimacy. Reduce him to gutter-rat.
The Chairwoman lifted her gavel—ivory and cold. Struck.
*THOOM!*
Funeral knell. Echoing in the tomb-silence.
“Motion carried!”
“Effective immediately!”
“Revocation notice—served within thirty minutes! To Leo Yang! Or his registered domicile!”
Brandon adjusted his cufflinks—surgeon post-operation. He approached Greene’s ruin, bent close—serpent’s whisper:
“Adequate, Greene. Your… prospects… remain intact.”
He straightened. Donned the martyr’s mantle. Strode from the chamber—oxfords striking marble.
*Click. Click. Click.*
Victory’s cadence.
(Locke Manor: Master Study)
Fortified oak door—sealed.
Rosa Casta stood before towering windows—a funerary statue. Beyond: regimented lawns. Further: Foghaven’s skyline—bruised by stormclouds.
A tablet glowed in her hands. Screen illuminated:
*OFFICIAL NOTICE: PERMANENT REVOCATION - LEO YANG, ORDERLY LICENSE*
Crimson letterhead. Digital seal. Gelid finality.
Footnote:
“Hardcopy served to: Oakwood Street #117, Lower Ward (Registered Residence).”
Rosa’s arctic eyes scanned—indifferent as assessing refuse.
A pale finger tapped. Screen shifted.
Encrypted comms interface.
Victor Locke’s profile photo. Status: *COMMUNICATIONS RESTRICTED. LOCATION LOCKED: WEST WING, SECOND FLOOR.*
Her finger hovered—nanosecond deliberation.
Descended.
*Swipe.*
“Directive confirmed: Target Victor Locke. Comms: Permanent blackout. Mobility: Confined West Wing Level Two. Execute.”
Instruction disseminated.
Silent.
A pebble dropped into lightless fathoms.
Rosa’s gaze returned to the window—to the storm-wreathed demesne of Locke dominion.
Her lips—
Parted.
Minutely.
One millimeter.
An absolute zero crescent.
- Writer
