The chronological archives simplified the hunt—cross-referencing dates with surgical precision. Themis had practically gift-wrapped this puzzle, her clues nesting within pre-established timelines.
Fran's fingers brushed October's newspapers. There it dominated the front page: October 30th - Dr. Fran Hessel's Public Trial. For a luminary surgeon to be dissected in this anatomical theater of public scrutiny... now that constituted a proper downfall.
"Courtroom vivisection," she murmured. "How... theatrical." Her scalpels had always danced in ethical gray zones, but legal condemnation required crimes legally sanctified. Without that bureaucratic alchemy, this spectacle was mere carnage.
The headline crowed: "Innocence Vindicated: Defendant's Rebuttal Leaves No Room for Doubt!" No hidden key here—just newsprint reeking of judicial farce.
"Clever girl." Fran's gloved palm flattened against the concrete wall. The final key wouldn't be physical. It thrived in the intersection of reputation's collapse and...
Her sutured lips curved. The answer burned in the trial's aftermath—the true Prodigy's Ruin.
The court transcripts blared their contradictions:
[Exhibit A: Testimonies from 37 alleged victims]
"Chronological discrepancies... hyperbolic claims... evidentiary house of cards."
[Exhibit B: Defense Submission - Clinical Trial Accord No.X-229]
"All procedures compliant with Norlington Bioethics Charter §12.3. No moral turpitude detected."
"Marvelous." Fran's sutured lips twitched in professional admiration. "Who knew my shadow-self possessed such legal virtuosity? A regular PR maestro."
Her gloved finger traced the trial date—October 30th. "The Prodigy's Ruin needs temporal expansion." She began scouring post-verdict archives. A second trial would logically convene in February, though any competent attorney (which this alternate-Fran clearly was) would've ensured appellate futility.
"Must my doppelgänger exhibit such... ethical rigor?" She scowled at the three-months-later headline:
"Appeal Dismissed - Defense's Arguments Declared Legally Immaculate"
"Useless." The physician tossed the paper aside. "Why couldn't you embrace malpractice like a proper mad scientist?"
"My case is nearly flawless in terms of resources and procedures, leaving no grounds for losing the lawsuit."
Finding the newspaper had consumed a considerable amount of Fran's time and energy. This particular newspaper was a daily publication, released every day.
Consequently, she had sifted through nearly ninety volumes before finally locating the issue covering the second trial… yet, she had still failed to find the key.
She could feel her focus gradually slipping away, and the pain was becoming increasingly intense.
Without kidneys, the concentration of various metabolic byproducts in her blood would rise steadily, ultimately leading to irrevocable organ failure.
To survive, Fran had to complete her trial as quickly as possible and then undergo dialysis. She needed to get her kidneys back…
Surprisingly, Fran did not appear anxious; instead, she seemed eerily calm.
She merely quickened her pace, flipping through the newspapers following the issue of the second trial, skimming through them more and more briefly, often glancing at the front page before moving on to the next volume.
She had already deduced the approximate timeline of the final event.
Even if she couldn't pinpoint it accurately, that was fine; the current situation could be resolved through exhaustive searching by tracing back along the timeline.
"Oh, here it is… I found you."
At last, Fran had obtained the issue she sought. She tore it open, feeling a sense of satisfaction as she retrieved the last key from the hollowed-out section in the middle.
The January 20th headline screamed its truth:
"Dr. Fran Hessel Vanishes! Task Force Mobilized Within 24 Hours - Police Investigation Underway!"
"So this is the true Prodigy's Ruin," Fran mused, inserting three keys into the second chamber's lock. Tumblers clicked with finality.
Her hypothesis held: Key One from Julie's corpse, Keys Two and Three harvested through temporal archaeology. "Bibliohide-and-seek? How... Shawshankian."
——
Third Chamber
The new cell offered the same concrete bleakness, though marginally cleaner than standard prisons. Fran crouched, fingertips brushing spotless floors.
"Antiseptic overkill." She inhaled the sharp tang of chlorine. "Compulsive sterilization—pathology or professionalism?"
Her gaze lifted to a battered oak desk. Beneath a hematite paperweight lay three journal pages—the diary's missing finale.
"Let's diagnose your obsession, Themis." The surgeon's gloved hand retrieved the pages, her pulse steady as an EKG flatline.
May 25. A private detective approached me, claiming he could offer some assistance. He produced photographs of John and Julie in a compromising situation and then quoted his fee. I paid him double and invited him to take on the case. He agreed.
June 1. How on earth did Julie end up in my fiancé's bed? When did John start coveting this fortune? What methods did he use to tamper with my father's brakes?
I didn't want to know, but the detective was diligent. He unearthed a plethora of unsavory evidence... Every day, I forced myself to examine the materials, and almost every night, I was plagued by nightmares. I told myself I was ill, and as a result, the wedding was postponed until September.
August 1. I was fully prepared and couldn't wait to take back everything from them with my own hands.
"Strangely enough, the closer I am to the brink, the calmer I become. It's not just a simple case of being lovesick... Being ruthless is far more appealing than being foolish."
Fran had come to understand the general outline of the situation, and as for the details... she had filled in the gaps in her mind.
All it was, in essence, was a story of revenge—rather cliché, to be honest.
Regardless, her insatiable curiosity was thoroughly satisfied. She squinted her eyes and let out a contented breath.
"Let's see what the mystery of this third room holds."
Fran's surgical gloves brushed the polypropylene device bolted to the wall—its crimson cross emblem flaking at the edges. Beneath the sterile facade lay a cassette tape, still warm from recent placement.
The player's spools whirred to life, releasing a voice steeped in antiseptic malice:
"Dr. Hessel. You've reconstructed the tragedy, yes? John's self-immolation in his garage... Julie's leap from the surgical tower. Self-administered euthanasia, per the coroners." Static crackled like burning nerve endings. "Now, a clinician's dilemma—"
The recording leaned closer, though that was impossible. "When survival demands bloodletting, do you martyr yourself... or become the transfusion vampire?"
Fran's gaze shifted to the hematology apparatus—needles gleaming under UV sterility lights. Across the chamber's biohazard glass, a shadowed figure lay hemorrhaging.
"800 milliliters unlocks freedom." The voice dissolved into tape hiss. "But whose veins shall empty first?"
Fran's gaze dissected the phlebotomy rig. "800cc extraction on my renal-compromised physiology? Exsanguination with paperwork." Her translucent pallor betrayed no fear, only clinical fascination.
Even robust individuals would falter after losing 30% blood volume—muscle tremors, syncope, tachycardia. For her? Post-nephrectomy anemia transformed this trial into hemodynamic sabotage.
"Alternative solutions exist," she mused, gloved finger tracing the collection chamber. "Fluid density variance under 5%... Salivary ducts, bladder reserves—" Her scalpel-sharp mind calculated osmotic loopholes. "—but transfusion via bodily alchemy would poison that poor soul more efficiently than cyanide."
The Hippocratic oath coiled around her throat like a scalpel suture.
"Proceed with sanguine protocol."
The needle's bite ignited a vampiric transaction. Crimson rivulets snaked through tubing—each milliliter a stolen heartbeat. Fran monitored her fading warmth with preternatural calm, vitality leaching into the machine's sterile embrace.
"Fascinating," she whispered to the draining bag. "True death whispers through venous highways long before cardiac arrest."
The transfusion bag swelled—200, 400, 600... 800ml of vital essence siphoned to critical mass. Fran's already ashen complexion bloomed into spectral translucence, her frame swaying like frostbitten ivy.
The lock disengaged with hydraulic hiss. She leaned against cold concrete, each step echoing through hollowed veins. "Five chambers? I'd start dissecting walls," she rasped, thumb pressing bruised orbital sockets.
Fourth Chamber
Another concrete box. Another steel table bearing cassette recorder and unmarked medical device. The centerpiece: a male corpse slumped in rigor mortis' aftermath, facial tissues mottled in necrotic grays.
Fran's diagnostic pinch confirmed advanced decomposition—muscle flaccidity indicating 72+ hours post-mortem. Cryogenic dryness had preserved him like jerky.
The corpse's tweed jacket surrendered a locket. Its hinge creaked open to reveal wedding-day radiance: John Howard beaming beside a veiled Themis, sunlight glinting off twin bands of gold.
"Ah, Judas groom." Her scalpel tapped the corpse's disintegrating ring finger. "Poetic—your betrayal preserved better than your flesh."
Fran's gloved fingers rummaged through her surgical kit. "Thoroughness trumps dignity," she muttered, selecting a rib spreader. The corpse's leathery flesh yielded with parchment crackle—no hidden compartments, just congealed sludge in the thoracic cavity.
"Disappointing." She flicked clotted gore from her instruments. "Amateurs never embed data chips in myocardium anymore."
The mummified cadaver reeked of formaldehyde and failed hopes. Her boot connected with the chair's leg—a precise kick sending the body sprawling. She claimed the seat like a coroner-queen, dabbing the woodgrain with monogrammed silk.
The cassette player swallowed its metallic prey. Themis' voice emerged, crisp as cryogenic frost:
"Observe the CCTV camera. No exits unmonitored. Now... reclaim your stolen sanguine treasure."
Fran's laughter skittered across concrete walls. "Reverse transfusion? Oh darling—" She palmed the blood bag's tubing. "—you should've specified whose veins get refilled."
The transfusion's perfection chilled—no immune rejection, whole blood compatibility, precise hemorrhagic parameters. Themis had engineered this scenario with surgical choreography, every variable calibrated to Fran's current physiological ruin.
"Admirable trap design," Fran murmured, fingers securing the transfusion line. The choice hadn't been medical—it was ontological. Substituting saline or urine would've triggered secondary protocols, dooming the recipient to septic annihilation.
"Ethical interrogation through loophole exploitation." Her pulse quickened as reinfused blood warmed frostbitten capillaries. "You confuse mercy with weakness, Themis."
Lightheadedness receded like anesthetic fog. Vital signs stabilized, though renal absence still screamed through her nervous system. The vault door's groan echoed through the chamber—final lock disengaging.
Fran's laughter carried hematologic irony. "Surgeons don't play fair—we rig the game." Her thumb brushed the empty blood bag's surface. "But credit where due... this hemoglobin sacrament was inspired."
Themis' voice flowed like liquefied mercury through the chamber: "Your contempt for humanity is matched only by reverence for life itself. Enter, Doctor—let us... complete you."
Fran's clinic-grade smile returned, sharper than any scalpel. "Four chambers? A surgical theater's warm-up act." Her boot nudged John Howard's mummified groom, the gold wedding band clattering across concrete. "Generous of you, considering the circumstances."
A micro-expression flickered through her amber irises—pathologist's relish glimpsing a rare carcinoma. Gone before it registered.
"Let's hope my gift proves equally... surgical."
She crossed the threshold with hemorrhage-weak gait, cadaver-pale fingers trailing the wall. Every step a pantomime of terminal patient's shuffle—eyes bright with predator's anticipation.