The secured wing was quieter than the rest of my clinic. Intentionally so. Thick soundproof walls. Dimmed lights. One-way observation glass that let me watch without being seen.
I stood in the viewing room with my arms crossed, staring at the man strapped to the surgical bed.
Justin Halderman lay unconscious for now, his powerful body stripped down to a thin hospital gown that did nothing to hide the hard lines of muscle still fighting the poison. Monitors beeped steadily. IV lines snaked into his veins, pumping the first round of my custom stabilizers. His chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm, the black veins across his neck and torso looking like dark rivers on golden skin.
He looked vulnerable.
He looked like mine to break.
I should have felt nothing but professional detachment. I
