The Gallery of Pain

The coordinates led to an abandoned art gallery called *Veritas*. The front windows were boarded up, covered in graffiti.

Sasha and Leo entered through the back, weapons drawn.

The interior was hollowed out, concrete pillars stretching into darkness. But in the center of the main floor, a spotlight was rigged to the ceiling.

It illuminated a pedestal. On the pedestal sat a surgical tray. A scalpel. A bone saw. A retractor.

And a phone.

It began to ring the moment Sasha stepped into the light.

Leo signaled her to wait. He swept the room with his flashlight. "Clear," he whispered.

Sasha walked to the pedestal. She picked up the phone.

"Hello, Sasha," the voice was smooth, cultured, like dry sherry. It hadn't aged a day.

"Julian," Sasha said. She used the name they had identified five years ago, the name of the disgraced surgeon. Julian Thorne.

"I prefer 'Architect' now," he mused. "But Julian will do. You look... magnificent. I was watching you at the gym. The muscle definition in your deltoids is exquisite. You took the raw material I gave you and you refined it."

"I survived you," Sasha spat. "I didn't refine anything."

"Didn't you?" Thorne laughed softly. "Do you think the librarian could have kicked a door down? Do you think the librarian could have held a gun steady right now? I didn't want to kill you, Sasha. I wanted to forge you. Trauma is the fire. You are the steel."

"I'm coming for you," Sasha said. "And I'm going to put you in the ground."

"I look forward to it. But you need to understand something. You are not the hero of this story. You are the product. And I still own the patent."

"Where are you?"

"Closer than you think. Ask the detective how his wife is doing."

The line went dead.

Sasha froze. She slowly lowered the phone. She turned to Leo.

Leo was staring at her, confused. "What did he say?"

"Leo," Sasha asked slowly. "How is Sarah?"

Leo blinked, taken aback. "She... she's fine. The new treatment is working. Her tremors are gone. We finally found a specialist who would take her case pro bono."

"What's the specialist's name?"

"Dr. Vane," Leo said. "Why?"

Sasha felt the blood drain from her face. "Vane? As in...?"

"No, it's a common name. Dr. Marcus Vane. He's a plastic surgeon, reconstructive work mostly, but he has a background in neurology."

"Show me a picture," Sasha demanded. "Pull up his practice website. Now."

Leo fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking. He pulled up the site. He turned the screen to Sasha.

It was him. Older. A beard. Glasses. But the eyes—cold, dead, calculating—were the same.

"It's him," Sasha whispered. "He's been treating your wife."

Leo dropped the phone. It cracked on the concrete floor. "No. No, that's impossible. He... he comes to the house. He sits at our dinner table. He brings wine."

Sasha realized the depth of the game. Thorne hadn't just been watching her. He had infiltrated the one safe harbor she had. He had compromised Leo.

"We have to go to his office," Leo stammered, panic taking over. "We have to get Sarah."

"No," Sasha said. She saw the terror in Leo's eyes. Thorne had a hostage. If Leo went in, he would hesitate. He would be leverage.

"Give me the keys to your car," Sasha said.

"Sasha, we do this together!"

"He owns you right now, Leo! He has Sarah. If you show up, he kills her. I have to go alone. I have to end it."

"I can't let you—"

Sasha moved faster than thought. She swept Leo’s leg, knocking him to the ground, and zip-tied his wrists to the pedestal before he could catch his breath.

"I'm sorry, Leo," she said, grabbing his keys from the floor. "I'll get him. I promise."

"Sasha!" Leo screamed as she ran out into the night.