Chapter 4

Dr. Evans was different. He was a senior neurologist, a man with quiet eyes that saw too much. He wasn't part of Caleb's hand-picked team; he was a hospital consultant who reviewed complex cases. He would come into my room, check my charts, and ask me questions that went beyond the physical.

"How are you, Ms. Johns? Really."

One afternoon, he was testing the response in my fingers. I barely flinched as he pricked them with a pin.

"No sensation?" he asked, his brow furrowed.

"No," I said, my voice flat.

He looked at my chart, then at me. "The surgery was delayed by two weeks. Do you know why?"

"Caleb said my system was too weak to handle the anesthesia," I recited the lie I'd been told.

Dr. Evans's gaze was steady. "Your system was fine. I reviewed your pre-op records."

In that moment, we both knew. He saw the truth I couldn't speak. He saw the deliberate medical malpractice orchestrated by the man who sat by my bedside every day.

He didn't say anything more about it. But a few days later, during a routine check-in, he quietly placed a new, state-of-the-art tablet on my bedside table.

"A gift," he said, his voice low. "From a secret admirer. It has the best voice-to-text software on the market. And a highly encrypted messaging app. For your privacy."

He looked me directly in the eye. "Andrew Scott at Nexus has been asking about you. He's a good man. Principled."

It wasn't just a tablet. It was a weapon. A lifeline.

That night, under the dim glow of the screen, my clumsy fingers slowly typed out a single, encrypted message. I didn't use my name. I didn't need to.

"He broke my hands."

I sent it to the contact Dr. Evans had pre-loaded. The contact labeled "AS."

The reply came back in less than a minute.

"I know. Where are you?"

Hope, for the first time in months, began to flicker in the darkness.