The drive to her apartment is quiet. The city is waking up, the sun hitting the road with a cold, pale light. She argued with me all morning, trying to convince me that she must go to work. I was protesting heavily. I gave her a dozen reasons why staying at the morgue is a suicide mission, each more logical than the last. Not because I'm scared to let go, but because letting her out of my sight physically hurts. It's a phantom limb syndrome, ajagged ache in my chest that only subsides when she's within my arm's reach.
Well, she won. Obviously. Because as it turns out, I can dismantle a man's ribcage in under four minutes without blinking, but I can't survive a single, defiant tilt of Madeleine's chin. She didn't even have to raise her voice. She just gave me that look, the one that says she's already decided, and my opinion is nothing more than background noise.
So here I am, the most feared man in the city, sulking behind the steering wheel and playing chauffeur because my little pathologist has a stubborn streak that rivals the number of souls I've personally sent to hell.
Madeline sits in the passenger seat, dressed in the clothes I managed to salvage for her, her expression unreadable. She looks tired, her eyes tracing the familiar streets. I stop the car a block away from her building. I don't want her seen with me. Not now. The Elite are always watching, and the man who put a bullet in her shoulder is still breathing.
She reaches for the door handle, but I catch her wrist. Not to restrain her, but to ground her.
"The men who tried to shoot us," I murmur, my gaze locking onto hers.
"I’m finalizing the plan. They won't see the end of the week. I’m going to make sure they regret every second of that night."
She nods, a small, weary movement.
"I have to go, Deimos. I have a shift. Death doesn't wait for your plans."
"Neither do I, Madeline."
I watch her walk away, her silhouette disappearing into the morning mist. I tell myself I’m letting her go so she can maintain the facade, but as I pull away, a nagging sensation pricks at the back of my skull. A variable I haven't accounted for.
I return to my apartment, the scent of her still lingering on my skin. I go to the room to clear the wreckage of the night, but my eyes stop on the table.
My grooming kit is slightly moved. Just a few millimeters.
I freeze. My mind instantly begins a playback of the room's layout. I am a man of absolute precision; I know exactly where every object sits. I lean down, inspecting the silver tray where I keep my comb and razor. There. A single, platinum hair that isn't mine is caught in the bristles of my brush. And my spare razor... the cap isn't clicked shut the way I always leave it.
She didn't just sleep. She hunted. And the most important thing… she was so quiet about it, that I didn't even wake up.
I feel the blood in my veins turn to ice. It wasn't a surrender. It was a heist. She wasn't just enjoying the warmth of my bed; she was harvesting the one thing that connects me to the world she’s trying to solve.
My DNA.
A low, dangerous growl escapes my throat. I reach for my phone, my fingers hovering over the tracking software for the cameras I have hidden near her lab.
"You're playing a very dangerous game, Doctor," I whisper to the empty room.
"And you have no idea whose ghost you're about to wake up."
I don't feel anger, not yet. I feel the thrill of a hunt where the prey has finally started to bite back. I’m starting to be curious. I sit in my darkened room, the glow of six monitors reflecting in my eyes. I pull up the feed from the morgue. It’s a subterranean world of stainless steel and fluorescent hum, a place where Madeline feels most at home.
I watch her walk through the heavy double doors, her posture stiff, her lab coat a white shroud against the clinical gray. She looks pale on the high-definition screen, but her hands aresteady. That’s my Madeline. Even after a night of being broken and rebuilt, she functions.
I lean back, tapping a rhythmic cadence on the mahogany desk as I watch her set her bag down. She thinks she’s alone. She thinks the "good doctor" is back in her sanctuary.
"What are you looking for, Madeline?"
I whisper to the flickering screen.
I watch as she pulls a small, sealed vial from her pocket. She looks around carefully before she moves toward the DNA sequencer. The expensive piece of equipment. She’s efficient. She’s quiet. She doesn't look straight at the cameras, but she’s cautious, glancing at the door every few seconds.
She takes a swab, my swab, and begins the preparation. Then, she pulls out another set of samples. Two more.
I freeze. My fingers stop their tapping.
One sample from me is a betrayal. But three? My mind starts connecting the dots across a map I didn't know existed. She’s not just looking for a way to incriminate me. She’s comparing.
I zoom in, the resolution sharpening until I can see the labels she’s scribbling in shorthand. D. L. C.
