Adrian watched the door slide shut behind Jared and did not move.

The med-bay swallowed him whole once Jared was gone. The hum of the diagnostics pressed in, too loud, too close. He stood, unmoving, hands limp at his sides, jaw clenched. The memory of Jared’s flinch replayed behind his eyes. Not pain. Fear.

Professional. Now.

He crossed the room. Began to work. Movements mechanical, as if borrowed from someone else.

Jared’s blood waited in the rack, labels stark against glass. Adrian slotted the vials into the analyzer, fingers steady, face blank. He keyed in the hidden panel. Neural markers. Thaumic residue. Resonance drift. He pulled up the scans again, slower now. Not a doctor. Not just that. Someone who knew what these patterns meant, and what they could become.

The first results chimed in.

He leaned closer to the screen.

“No,” he said quietly.

The numbers were wrong. Not disaster, not yet. But shifting. Jared’s aura, out of tune; subtle, but clear. The Mind Flayer’s touch lingered, refusing to fade. It had found a home. Worse, it had found something waiting for it. Old. Familiar.

Dark exposure. Prolonged. Repeated. Trauma layered on trauma until the signal bent instead of breaking.

Resonance with the dark.

Adrian closed his eyes. Counted. One. Two. Three. Forced them open. Forced himself to keep reading.

Midnight. Locked in his office, coffee gone cold, conclusions colder. He dragged old case files from the archive; sealed, forgotten, dust thick on the edges. Patterns surfaced if you let them. Agents who walked the city’s Dark too long started to hum wrong. Most burned out. Some broke. A rare few changed shape and survived.

Progressive Dark tuning following traumatic exposure.

He typed. Fingers numb, wrists aching. Still, he kept going.

The case study grew beneath his hands. Words sharp, clinical, merciless. Initial trauma. Psychic incursion. Resonance, amplified by every new threat. Early symptoms: spatial disorientation, emotional blunting, inappropriate physiological responses. Risk factors: isolation, refusal of rest, and personal history with compromised artifacts.  

He did not write Jared’s name in the body of the report. He did not need to.

Sunlight crept in, pale and thin, painting the office in sickly color. The document was done. Adrian leaned back, staring at the words. He knew what they meant.

Monitoring. Anchoring. Eventual containment if progression continued.

He saved the file. Sent it away. His hand shook on the controls.

Kate was already in when he found her in the morning, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the rain outside. She took one look at his face and swore under her breath.

“You didn’t sleep,” she said.

“No.”

“What happened?”

He handed her the datapad.

She read in silence. Once. Then again, slower. When she looked up, her mouth was set in a thin line. “You’re sure.”

“I wish I weren’t.”

She exhaled. “If this progresses...”

“I know.” Adrian cut in, then checked himself. “He needs a partner. Immediately. Someone to monitor behavioral drift, Dark manifestation, and compliance with rest protocols.”

Kate’s eyes met his over the datapad. “You’re volunteering.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a conflict of interest.”

“That’s an asset,” Adrian said flatly. “He trusts me. He listens to me. And I will see it sooner than anyone else if he starts to slide.”

She held his gaze. Silence thick between them. Understanding, unspoken. Jared Blake was not someone you caught after the fall. You stayed close. Close enough to catch him before he slipped.

“Fine,” she said at last. “But if containment becomes necessary...”

“I will be the one to initiate it,” Adrian said. “And I will not hesitate.”

Kate nodded once. “I’ll make the assignment official.”

Relief did not come. Only the ache of what waited.

Back in the clinic, Adrian called Jared. It rang. Once. Twice. But Jared didn’t answer. He tried again, waiting longer this time, as if patience might bridge distance. Nothing.

Unease crawled beneath his skin, up his spine, settling at the base of his skull.

He grabbed his coat. Left without signing out.

Jared’s apartment was dark. No answer to his knock. No movement. Adrian keyed in his medical clearance, pulse thudding in his ears. The door slid open with a soft chime, too bright, too loud in the hush beyond.

“Jared,” he called.

No response.

He found him on the kitchen floor.

Jared burned. Skin flushed, breath ragged and thin. Adrian knelt, called his name, pressed fingers to his throat. Pulse: too fast, too weak. His eyes swept the room, cataloging. The signs were there. Not dramatic. Not for show. Quiet, careful harm. Enough to dull the edge, not end it. Adrian swallowed, forced the reaction down.

Later.

He lifted Jared with practiced ease and carried him to the bathroom. Cool cloth. Words, soft, whether Jared heard or not. He cleaned the apartment with surgical precision, erasing anything that could become a question, a weapon. Not hiding the truth. Just buying Jared time.

When the transport came, Adrian rode with him. One hand steady on Jared’s shoulder. The city slid past in gray streaks.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, professional and not, a doctor and something else entirely. “I’ve got you. Even if you don’t want me to.”

The monitors beeped on, steady for now.

Adrian watched the numbers. Waiting. Planning for what would come next.

Jared woke to white.

Not the harsh white of the med-bay, but something softer. Dimmed lights. Cool air, tinged with antiseptic and a trace of something green, meant to soothe. He recognized the recovery ward.

His body was far away, heavy, as if it belonged to another. A dull ache everywhere. Not sharp. Contained.

He turned his head. Something deep in his chest and spine pulled tight, sore. He hissed, then stilled, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Easy.” Adrian’s voice came from the left.

Jared’s eyes found him. Adrian stood at the bedside, tablet in hand. Controlled, but not rigid. Hair pulled back, silver at his temples catching the light. He looked worn, the tired that refused to be named.

“How long?” Jared asked. His throat felt like sand.

“Just under eighteen hours,” Adrian said. He stepped closer and adjusted the bed angle with a touch panel. “You spiked a fever overnight. We’ve stabilized it.”

Jared nodded. No argument. No effort to rise. The words landed somewhere distant, as if they belonged to another life.

Adrian clocked that immediately.

“You experienced acute systemic stress compounded by your injuries,” he continued, tone even. “Your body essentially ran out of margin. That happens more often than agents like to admit.”

“Makes sense,” Jared murmured.

Adrian’s jaw tightened. He said nothing. Fingers found Jared’s wrist, warm and precise. The pulse steadier. Not right, but closer.

“There’s something else,” Adrian said. “I made a call while you were unresponsive.”

Jared’s gaze drifted back to the ceiling. “Okay.”

Adrian watched his face carefully as he spoke. “Given the combination of physical trauma, fever, and neurological irregularities, I implanted a cybernetic monitor.”

A slow blink. Real, if delayed.

“It’s subdermal,” Adrian went on. “Base of the neck, just off the spinal column. It tracks vitals, neural activity, and stress spikes in real time. It alerts the clinic automatically if anything crosses a danger threshold.”

Jared let the words settle. Silence.

“You didn’t ask,” he said finally. Not accusing. Just stating a fact.

“You were not in a condition to consent,” Adrian replied. “This falls under emergency medical authority.”

“Okay.”

Only that.

Adrian searched his face for anger, sarcasm, the old defiance. Nothing. Jared was tired in a way sleep could not reach. Eyes dulled, edges worn thin.

“You may feel a mild pressure sensation for a few days,” Adrian said. “Or occasional warmth when it transmits data. No pain. It can’t be removed without a surgical override.”

“Alright.”

Adrian let out a slow breath.

“You’re on enforced medical leave,” he added. “Still. That hasn’t changed. Rest protocols are non-negotiable. Nutrition, hydration, sleep. No field work. No independent investigations.”

Jared’s fingers curled loosely against the sheet. “Got it.”

Silence pressed in, thick. Machines hummed. Down the hall, a gurney rolled past, voices blurred.

Adrian adjusted the blanket where it had slipped from Jared’s shoulder. Careful, automatic. His hand hovered, then withdrew.

“Who found me?” Jared asked quietly.

After a pause, “I did.”

Jared nodded, knowing what Adrian found.

“I need you to tell me if anything feels off,” Adrian said. “Headaches. Gaps in time. Emotional… flattening. Anything.”

Jared turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded. “I don’t really feel much of anything right now.”

Quiet words. Honest.

Adrian nodded, once. “That’s not uncommon after what you’ve been through.”

Jared said nothing. His gaze drifted, unfocused. Breath slow, shallow, steady. Not peace, but resignation. Resistance had cost more than he had left.

Adrian straightened, professional mask locking back into place.

“I’ll check on you again in a few hours,” he said. “Rest.”

Jared closed his eyes. “Okay,” he murmured.

Adrian lingered, watching the monitor trace its calm lines. Then he left. The door slid shut with a soft, final sound.

Beneath Jared’s skin, the new implant pulsed once. Unseen. Listening.