INT – CGO LABORATORY
The conversation began to flow naturally again—updates on projects, new planned implementations, ongoing experiments. It was her language, the one she loved, each word stoking the embers inside her. The fire in her, nearly smothered under the suffocating sand of fear, flared back to life, crackling brighter with every exchange.
On the glass tablet, the two of them worked side by side, creating a checklist and setting schedules for the projects.
Then… a thought flickered.
A shadow she'd been holding back for days.
Her stylus paused mid-air.
"Doctor." Her voice came out slow, hesitant, almost tasting the weight of the question before it left her lips.
The doctor didn't look up immediately. He finished writing one last line before setting the stylus down with deliberate care. He looked up with a small, gentle "Hmm?" — the kind of kindness that made her doubt if she should speak at all.
"Is there something wrong?" he asked. With him, lying always felt like a betrayal. This was someone she respected deeply, someone who always seemed to know what to do. Especially when it came to Erion.
"Do you know the cause—" She stopped, eyes dropping to the tablet between them.
"The cause of?" The doctor's gaze held steady, waiting.
She looked up slowly, trying to catch the smallest shift in his expression.
"The cause of Erion's scars."
The change was instant. Shock rippled across his face, like he'd seen a ghost he wasn't prepared for. The sound of the fidget ring he was playing a moment ago was muted.
Then came something heavier — the look of a man weighing every word he was about to speak.
Was it really that hidden? she thought. His expression told her she'd touched something forbidden, maybe even cursed.
"Did he tell you?" His faint smile didn't reach his eyes. He pulled out a chair, sitting closer.
Evah shook her head. "I saw," she muttered, almost a whisper.
Another flicker of shock passed over him before he reached out, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders, urging her to sit.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he said, not with surprise, but with pity. And she understood. Those scars weren't something meant to be seen. Not by anyone.
She gripped the glass tablet in her lap like an anchor. The doctor glanced around. Everyone else was working in the far corner of the production floor, as usual — far from earshot.
"I just want to know one thing." Her eyes rose, steady now.
"Just one, Doctor. Then I'll stop." Her fist clenched tighter.
"Can you tell me?"
For a moment, he simply looked at her. She couldn't read him, pity, sadness, or… fear? Then a long sigh escaped him, the sound of surrender.
"I'm sorry, but I can't." His voice carried an unusual authority, firm and final.
"But why?"
"You already tried, didn't you?" His gaze locked on hers. The question hit too close, and she faltered.
"Miss Evah," he said with a soft chuckle, easing the sting of his words. "I just… remembered myself, that's all." His eyes drifted to the corner where the others worked. "I regret it. I'm sure Erion told you not to."
"But why!" Her voice rose but it was clearly a request, a silent plea, though his calmness didn't waver. Something in his eyes unsettled her more than his refusal.
"It will linger on you," he murmured, spinning the fidget ring on his finger.
"I tried too."
Her breath caught.
"Erion stopped me." His gaze turned distant, as if looking somewhere far beyond the lab walls. "But I didn't stop. I kept digging… just like you are now."
The words sank into her chest. The wide, open space of the lab suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker.
"One night," he continued, "he came to my house… drenched in blood."
Evah gasped.
"It wasn't unusual for him. He took on missions alone, things no one else even knew existed. Highly classified. Beyond classified."
He paused. A long, loaded pause. She waited, barely breathing.
"I'm telling you this to stop you, not encourage you," he said finally, voice low. "I know you won't stop — I understand that feeling — but this isn't always the answer."
He swallowed, steadying himself. "I treated his wounds. Nothing fatal… but I'd never seen him like that. Detached. Empty."
Evah pictured it as he spoke: Erion lying there, his blue eyes blank, like the life had been switched off inside him.
"I kept asking what happened. Again. Again. He didn't move. Didn't speak. It was like… my friend's body had been taken over by a machine." Sadness clouded his eyes. "Maybe it was his way of detaching from reality. I don't know."
Evah stayed silent. The need to know gnawed at her, sharper than before.
It was more than the next page of the thriller book — it was something crucial.