The private wing of the foundation clinic was a vacuum of sterile silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic, synthetic hum of life-support monitors and the relentless, weeping sound of rain against the reinforced glass. The sterile white light of the examination room felt invasive, stripping away the shadows that usually cloaked Oakhaven”s secrets.
Cattleya Vermont stood motionless beside the stainless-steel examination table, her brow furrowed as she scrolled through the latest data output on her terminal. The results were not just anomalous; they were impossible.
Rusty Vesper sat on the edge of the table, his shirt unbuttoned, his pale skin stark against the clinical padding. He watched her with an intensity that felt less like observation and more like gravity, pulling her attention aw
