Chapter Nine: Revocation Edict? The Godfather's Arctic Mirth!
1110 Words
(Medical Oversight Tribunal, Chairwoman's Sanctum)
*CRASH—!*
The oaken portal exploded inward—slamming stonewall with concussive force!
Margaret Hawkins—steel-grey hair, glacial furrows carving her face—sat enthroned behind her mahogany monolith. In her grasp: the freshly-printed revocation edict, ink still pungent. The stern satisfaction of justice served curdled as the door rebounded.
"Who dares?!" Her shriek fractured the sanctum.
The threshold—
Occluded.
Not men. Glaciers given form.
Head-to-toe obsidian: suits, shoes, shades. Over six-and-a-half feet. Muscle straining bespoke wool—hellforged golems.
Expressionless. Breathless. Soundless.
Their shadow swallowed the room. Light dimmed.
Hawkins’s heart seized. Arctic dread scaled her spine. Locke sentinels. Why here? Why now?!
"State your purpose!" Her command trembled. Fingers whitened on the edict.
The left titan shifted—minutely.
A third figure glided through.
Fiftyish. Hair mercury-slick. Temples silvered. Gold pince-nez. Eyes behind lenses—stillborn wells. Calm. Soul-numbing.
He carried no weapon. Only a slim, unmarked onyx folio.
"Chairwoman Hawkins." His voice—lifeless modulation. Each syllable an ice-dagger piercing her eardrum. "Mr. Robert… extends… his regards."
Robert Locke?
That death-cheating revenant?
Hawkins blanched—corpse-pale. Knuckles bone-white on the edict. Subtle tremors seized her. The Lockes? Intervening for an orderly? Grayson swore he was gutter-trash!
"Regarding… this tribunal’s… afternoon… adjudication… concerning Mr. Leo Yang’s… licensure revocation…" Pince-nez’s delivery remained flat—yet tectonic. "Mr. Robert… expresses… profound… concern."
He raised the folio. Lowered it—slow as a coffin descent—onto her immaculate desk.
*Tap.*
A pin-drop detonation.
Hawkins’s heart battered her ribs. She stared at the folio—a plutonium briefcase. Touch it? Never.
"What… is this?" Her voice shredded.
Pince-nez ignored her. His gaze—frigid scalpels—dissected her pallor, her death-grip on the edict.
"Mr. Robert… perceives…" Deadpan. "…this ruling… may harbor… technical… discrepancies."
"For instance—"
"…Evidentiary… continuity?"
"…Witness… veracity?"
"…Procedural… minutiae?"
Each phrase bleached Hawkins further. Technicalities? Evidence? Witnesses? Grayson’s "proof" was tinder! The Lockes knew!
"Mr. Robert… reveres… juridical… integrity…" Pince-nez continued, toneless. "He trusts… this tribunal… will… realign… with truth’s… mandate…"
Pause.
His eyes—cryonic lances—impaled her.
"…Reconvene…"
"…Reassess…"
"…This… verdict."
"Immediately."
"Instantaneously."
"Now."
Reconvene?!
Now?!
Arctic bloodlock! Reconvene meant self-immolation! Overturning their verdict! Grinding Grayson and the tribunal into dust!
"Preposterous! The edict’s ratified! Protocol demands—" She clawed for procedure.
Pince-nez lifted a hand—elegant guillotine.
"Protocol?" His lips twitched—microscopic zero-kelvin crescent. "Mr. Robert… trusts… Misthaven’s statutes… will render… ultimate… equity."
He tilted his head—toward the obsidian titans.
"Naturally…"
"…Should equity… prove… elusive…"
Still monotone.
"…We… shall… assist…"
"…The law…"
"…In its… recollection."
Final syllables—feather-light. Soul-crushing.
The titans shifted—imperceptibly.
*THUD.*
Floorboards groaned.
An aura—gunpowder, rust, and congealed gore—suffused the room. Suffocating. Mortal.
Margaret Hawkins—titaness of Foghaven medicine—dissolved. Sweat-drenched silk clung. The acrid tang of incontinence bloomed.
Denial? Her skull would pulp this mahogany.
"Re…reconvene!" The shriek tore her larynx—raw terror. "Instantly! Reassess! NOW!"
Fumbling—tremors sabotaging digits—she seized the intercom. Jabbed wrong buttons. Connected.
"Emergency tribunal! All members! Hear chamber! IMMEDIATELY! Revoke Yang revocation! MOVE!!!" Hysteria shredded her voice.
Pince-nez observed—dispassionate as watching insects scurry. A fractional nod.
"Mr. Robert… shall note… your… alacrity."
He turned. Vanished with his obsidian shadows—ink dissolving in night.
Alone.
Hawkins slumped—a soaked, reeking ruin—shivering in her throne.
And upon the desk—
The onyx folio.
A brand.
Searing her soul.
(Grayson Private Clinic, Brandon’s Lair)
Brandon Grayson floated on vindication.
Sprawled in Italian leather—hand-tooled oxblood. Booted feet arrogantly crossed on burled walnut. A ’47 Romanée-Conti breathed in his crystal tumbler—ruby depths mirroring his euphoria.
Revocation dispatched.
Leo Yang—gutter-rat. Hunted. Phase one. Agony’s overture.
He sipped—Burgundy ambrosia. Reached for his encrypted burner.
*Ding-dong.*
Office chime. Jarring.
Brandon scowled. Who interrupts triumph? He stabbed the intercom. "What?!"
"Dr. Grayson? A… parcel… Requires… personal receipt…" The receptionist’s voice—honey laced with tremors.
"Deposit it!" Brandon snapped.
"But… courier insisted… critical…" Fear vibrated the line.
Brandon slammed the tumbler down. Stormed to the door—yanked it open!
Empty corridor.
Floor-center:
A parcel.
Palm-sized.
Jet-black.
Unmarked.
A miniature tombstone.
Brandon’s gut coiled—cold serpent. A premonitory shudder.
He scanned—void. Eerie silence.
Crouched. Stiff fingers brushed the box.
Gelid.
Morgue-cold.
He snatched it—retreated—deadbolted the door. Box deposited on desk.
Heart hammered—prison-break tempo.
He seized a letter opener—scalpel-sharp silver. Sliced the sealing tape.
Slow. Surgical. Defusing ordnance.
Lid lifted.
Contents:
No explosive.
A wad of—
Crumpled.
Cheap.
Bleached.
Gauze.
Brandon frowned. Gauze? Absurd.
Blade-tip lifted the soiled bundle—
*Mental detonation.*
Pupils contracted—pinholes.
Blood cryogenized.
Beneath the gauze—
A badge.
His hospital’s.
Consultant tier.
Sterling silver.
But—
Desecrated.
Pristine argent—now saturated.
Congealed.
Dried.
Crimson.
Three-day blood-bath stench.
Cloying reek of copper and decay assaulted his nostrils.
The caduceus embossment—
Slashed. Ravaged. Blade-gouged trenches.
A palimpsest of curses.
Worst—
The reverse.
Where his name should gleam—
Scrawled in clotting gore—
A name.
The name.
The name he’d crucified hours prior.
The name he craved to dismember.
LEO YOUNG
Beneath it—
Smaller.
Tortured script. Same arterial ink.
Hell’s postscript:
“For… Dearest… Dr. Grayson…”
“…Next…”
“…Your…”
“…Heart…”
*Clatter.*
The letter opener hit marble.
Brandon collapsed—vertebrae dissolved—into leather.
Face—
Cadaverous.
Lips—
Quivering.
Teeth—
Chattering—death-rattle staccato.
Eyes—
Once arctic arrogance—
Now—
Abyssal terror.
Soul-deep frost.
Blood.
Human.
Fresh.
Whose badge?! Greene? Bronze, not silver. Consultants: three. Himself. Greene. And—
Lightning struck his void-mind.
*DAVID!*
That intern! That eavesdropping worm!
Christ! CHRIST!
Brandon gagged—bile volcano! He clamped his mouth!
The Lockes!
They knew!
They revoked!
And they sent—
This.
“Hh… hhggk…” Guttural death-rattle choked him. Icy claws crushed his windpipe! Black spots swarmed!
He grabbed the Burgundy—drown the horror!
Hands convulsed!
Crimson wine—
Splashed!
Across desk!
Across the gore-crusted badge!
Across LEO YOUNG!
Blood. Wine.
Mingled.
Streamed.
A meandering…
Stygian…
River.
*SMASH.*
The tumbler slipped.
Shattered.
Crimson tide—
Spilled blood—
Flooded the carpet.
Devouring.
- Writer
