PART 2: Mrs. Ellen’s hand flew to her throat, her eyes widening as she stared at the screen

Mrs. Ellen gripped my shoulders, pinning me down. For an old woman, she had the strength of a vise. “Do it, Marcus. Before the security bypass on the monitor times out. Her mother must have hired a hacker to get into the internal feed.”

As Marcus leaned over me, the needle inches from my neck, I didn’t look at him. I looked at the black notebook on the nightstand. “Don’t let Marcus know you remember.”

I hadn’t written that for myself.

I looked at the scars on my arms. I had thought they were from needles, but as the light hit them, I realized they were patterned. Marks. Codes.

I didn’t remember writing the note, but I remembered the feeling of the pen. I had been fighting him in my sleep for months. My subconscious had been building a fortress while he tried to tear down the walls.

“I remember the blue house,” I said suddenly.

Marcus froze. The needle hovered over my jugular.

“I remember the night your father took me,” I continued, my voice steady. “He wasn’t a doctor. He was an investor who lost everything when my father died. He didn’t want to save me. He wanted to ransom me, but I saw his face. So he decided to erase mine instead.”

“Quiet,” Marcus hissed.

“He used you, Marcus. He made you his accomplice when you were just a resident. He tied your medical license to a kidnapping. You’re not a genius. You’re just a janitor cleaning up your father’s crimes.”

Marcus’s hand shook. The precision he prided himself on was fracturing.

“I said be quiet!”

He lunged with the needle.

I wasn’t as weak as I pretended. I had been practicing yoga for two years under his “supervision” to improve my focus. I knew how to use my core. I arched my back, throwing Mrs. Ellen off balance, and grabbed Marcus’s wrist with both hands.

We struggled, the gurney creaking under the weight. Mrs. Ellen screamed, reaching for a heavy glass carafe on the side table.

“Sign it!” she shrieked. “Marcus, just kill her and we’ll forge the rest!”

“I can’t forge a live biometric scan!” Marcus roared, trying to force the needle into my arm.

I twisted his wrist, using his own momentum against him. He was a man of books and labs; I was a woman fueled by two years of stolen autonomy and a mother’s silent tears on a screen.