Clean Hands, Dirty Secrets
957 Words
The NeuraDyne Solutions building didn't look like the kind of place that could change your life. It was sleek and modern, all glass and steel tucked into a quiet corner of Camden, the kind of corporate anonymity that inspired neither trust nor suspicion. Just another biotech firm in a city full of them.
Callum stood on the pavement outside, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, trying to ignore the knot tightening in his stomach.
"You good?" Owen asked beside him.
"Yeah. Fine."
"You're sweating."
"It's warm out."
"It's February, mate."
Callum shot him a look. Owen raised his hands in mock surrender but didn't stop watching him with that particular brand of concern that made Callum feel both grateful and irritated in equal measure.
"I'm fine," Callum said again, more firmly this time. "Let's just get this over with."
They pushed through the glass doors into a reception area that smelled faintly of expensive coffee and antiseptic. Everything was white and chrome, sterile in a way that felt deliberate—designed to inspire confidence while revealing nothing. A young woman sat behind the desk, her smile professionally warm.
"Good morning. How can I help you?"
"Callum Reid. Ten o'clock with Dr. Sharp."
Her fingers flew across her keyboard. "Of course, Mr. Reid. Please take a seat. Someone will be with you shortly."
Callum and Owen settled into minimalist chairs that were somehow both stylish and deeply uncomfortable. A few other people sat scattered around the waiting area—a middle-aged man reading a newspaper with studied casualness, a woman in her thirties staring at her phone without blinking, a younger guy who looked even more nervous than Callum felt. Nobody made eye contact. Nobody spoke.
"Think they're all here for the same thing?" Owen murmured.
"Probably."
"Weird, isn't it? A room full of desperate people hoping science can fix their lives."
"Owen."
"What? I'm just observing."
Before Callum could respond, a door opened and a woman stepped through. Tall, late forties, dark hair pulled into a severe bun. She wore a white coat over charcoal trousers and carried herself with the posture of someone accustomed to being the most important person in any room.
"Callum Reid?"
Callum stood. "That's me."
"Dr. Evelyn Sharp. Please follow me." Her gaze moved briefly to Owen. "Only the applicant is permitted in the consultation room."
"He's with me," Callum said.
"I understand. Our policy—"
"It's fine," Owen cut in smoothly, settling back in his chair. "I'll wait here. I've got my phone."
Dr. Sharp's expression remained unchanged—the kind of neutrality that took years to perfect. She gestured for Callum to follow and turned without waiting.
He threw Owen a quick look. Owen gave him a thumbs up that was equal parts encouraging and terrified.
Callum followed Dr. Sharp through the door.
---
The consultation room continued the building's aesthetic—white walls, recessed lighting, a desk that probably cost more than Callum's monthly rent. Dr. Sharp sat behind it with practiced efficiency, motioning to the chair opposite.
"Thank you for coming in. Your application was impressive, Mr. Reid. You're an excellent candidate."
"What makes someone an excellent candidate?"
"Good baseline health, psychological resilience, and demonstrated financial need." She pulled up something on her monitor. "The Neural Enhancement Program is a pioneering study in human cognitive and physical optimization. We're exploring how targeted neural stimulation can improve performance across multiple metrics—strength, reflexes, cognitive processing, and emotional regulation."
Emotional regulation. The phrase snagged in Callum's mind like a hook.
"What exactly does the procedure involve?"
"A precisely formulated serum, injected directly into the cerebrospinal fluid. It integrates with existing neural pathways over several weeks, gradually optimizing neurological function." She said it the way people described software updates. Clean. Manageable. Inevitable.
"And side effects?"
"All medical interventions carry risk. You may experience discomfort during the adjustment period—headaches, fatigue, mild emotional sensitivity. Nothing we haven't managed successfully in prior subjects."
Prior subjects. "How many prior subjects?"
The briefest pause. "Enough to proceed with confidence."
She slid a tablet across the desk. Dense legal text filled the screen—thirty-seven pages of it, Callum noted. He began reading. Dr. Sharp waited without fidgeting, without checking her phone, without doing anything except watching him with a patience that felt less like courtesy and more like assessment.
He reached a clause on page twelve: Subject acknowledges potential for neurological adjustment periods of varying duration and intensity. NeuraDyne Solutions bears no liability for psychological or physiological changes occurring post-procedure within parameters defined as acceptable variance.
Acceptable variance.
He could have put the tablet down. Asked for his coat. Walked out.
However he signed.
---
Owen was on his feet the moment Callum came through the door, reading his face in the way only someone who'd known you since you were seventeen could manage.
"Well?"
"Medical evaluation tomorrow. If I pass, the procedure is next Friday." Callum felt oddly hollow saying it out loud—like the decision had been made for him the moment he'd submitted that application.
Owen studied him. "And you're okay?"
"I'm fine."
Owen opened his mouth, closed it, then said, "Alright. Tomorrow, then."
They walked out into the cold February air. Callum didn't look back at the building.
If he had, he might have noticed the woman standing at the third-floor window—dark hair, observant eyes, a tablet resting against her forearm. She watched them until they disappeared around the corner.
Then she opened Callum's file and typed four words into her notes field.
Subject secured. Begin close monitoring.
She paused, her fingers hovering over the screen for just a moment longer than necessary.
Then Olivia Hartwell closed the file and went back to work.
- Writer
