Chapter 3 - The Midnight Docket
By 2:00 a.m., the kitchen had turned into a command center of terror.
David had pulled a dusty steel lockbox from the back of his closet. Inside were yellowed legal documents, non-disclosure agreements printed on heavy cardstock, and a single black leather binder bearing the embossed silver logo of NEXAGEN BIOTECH INTERNATIONAL.
I sat at the table, skimming through pages of complex medical jargon, legal disclaimers, and liability waivers that made my skin crawl.
“Look at this clause,” I said, pointing my finger at Section 8.4. “‘In the event of device degradation, structural rupture, or biological rejection, the primary signers agree to notify Nexagen Medical Response immediately. Under no circumstances should unauthorized tertiary medical personnel attempt physical extraction.’ David... this isn't a medical trial. This is an ownership agreement!”
“I didn't care about the legal fine print back then, Sarah!” David buried his head in his hands, his voice muffled by his palms. “I was twenty-eight years old! My wife was dying in one hospital, and my infant son was diagnosed with a fatal genetic defect in another! A man named Dr. Victor Vance approached me in the waiting room. He promised me a miracle! And look at Ethan! Look at him! He played soccer! He ran! He grew up normal!”
“He is not normal right now, David!” I stood up, grabbing the black binder. “He is poisoned! We are taking him to the specialist in the morning, and we are handing all of this to the chief of surgery.”
Suddenly, the headlights of a heavy vehicle swept through the kitchen blinds, illuminating the far wall in bright yellow lines.
A dark SUV pulled into our driveway, idling silently behind David’s car.
My heart plummeted into my stomach. “David... did you call someone?”
“No,” David said, standing up and looking out the window. “I didn't call anyone.”
The car doors clicked open. Three men in dark business suits stepped out onto our driveway. The man leading them was in his early sixties, with silver hair swept back impeccably, wearing a tailored navy coat and holding a leather briefcase.
David gasped, taking a step back from the window. “It’s him...”
“Who?”
“Dr. Victor Vance.”
Before I could process the terror rising in my chest, the front doorbell rang—a loud, demanding chime that echoed through the quiet house like a alarm.
I didn't wait for David. I marched to the front door, unlocked the deadbolt, and threw it open.
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Dr. Vance stood on the porch, flanked by two towering men whose coats bulged faintly at the chest. He offered a polite, practiced smile that didn't reach his cold gray eyes.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” Dr. Vance said, his voice smooth, refined, and entirely chilling. “Good evening. I apologize for the late hour, but our remote monitoring telemetry flagged an emergency signal from Ethan’s unit forty minutes ago. We are here to secure the child.”
