Page 23 of Hallow’s Crown

I stare at it for a long time, not thinking about the next phase, not even thinking about the man in the suit and his clinical obsession. Just breathing, just existing. Letting my body recalibrate.

The next time I hear the lock disengage, I’m ready.

He enters.

He carries a package—maybe eight inches by four, wrapped in hospital blue. He sets it on the table.

“Stand,” he says.

I do. The robe shifts around my body, almost falling open, but I hold it closed with one hand.

He gestures. “Remove the robe. Face the wall.”

I obey. This time, the shame is less. The air is cool but not freezing, and I stand there, waiting, while he unwraps the package.

From behind me, the rustle of nitrile gloves. The pop of a snap as he stretches one over his hand. I watch in the mirror as he approaches, standing just behind me. There’s something about the way he moves—measured, never hurried—that makes it impossible to anticipate the next touch.

His hand lands on my shoulder, pressing down. The other hand, gloved, traces the edge of my spine, then spreads the cheeks of my ass. I tense, but don’t resist.

“Relax,” he says, and the word has weight.

He checks for injury, traces every scar and every healed-over wound. The exam is efficient, but thorough. He kneels, pressing the heel of his hand to the back of my thigh, feeling for strength. He cups my balls, lifts, weighs them. He stands, presses a palm to my stomach, then up to my chest, listening to the breath.

“You have a history of violence,” he says, conversational. “Did you enjoy it?”

I glare at the wall. “No. But I was good at it.”

He pauses, hand splayed over my heart. “You were better than most. You survived more than most.”

“You got the records to prove it,” I say.

He nods, almost to himself. “That’s why you’re here.”

He moves in front of me, takes my chin in one hand, tilts my head. He looks into my eyes, not the way a doctor does, but the way a priest or an interrogator does. Like he wants to see the thing inside me that refuses to die.

I want to break his nose.

Instead, I hold his gaze.

He lets go, then steps back. “Turn around.”

I do.

“Bend over the table,” he says.

I hesitate, just a second, then comply. My hands grip the edges of the table, knuckles white. I wait, every muscle in my back rigid, but he doesn’t touch me.

Instead, I hear the unwrapping of a syringe. The sound is unmistakable. The needle is cold against my skin when he injects it, just above the right buttock. There’s a sharp sting, then a slow heat spreading out from the site.

He massages the spot for a moment, then steps away.

“Standard prophylaxis,” he says. “Infection control.”

“Don’t want me dying before I break,” I say, biting off the words.

“Or after,” he replies.

He hands me the robe. I slip it on, tying it tight.