Still Raymond said nothing.Just watched."Where the hell are you going?" David had shouted earlier at Megan, and now he redirected that aggression toward Raymond. "Where does she think she's going? I didn't give her permission to leave. I didn't say we were done. And you—" he pointed at Raymond, the gesture aggressive, accusatory, "—you don't have any right to interfere in my business."Raymond's expression finally changed.Not dramatically—just a slight tightening around his eyes, a subtle shift in his posture that suggested something had clicked, some decision had been made, some threshold had been crossed.When he spoke, his voice was quiet.Dangerously quiet.The kind of quiet that makes people lean forward to hear, that commands attention through its very softness, that suggests violence is being held back by the thinnest margin of restraint."So you have the audacity," Raymond said, and each word was delivered with precision, with careful enunciation that made it clear this was

The words that came out of Raymond's mouth next were delivered with such cold precision that they seemed to lower the temperature in the room. Not shouted. Not hurried. Just stated—as simple facts, as promises that would be kept, as declarations of intent that carried the weight of absolute certainty. "I'm going to delete you," Raymond said, and the phrasing was deliberate, was chosen specifically for its implications—not *hurt* you, not *punish* you, but *delete* you, as if David was a mistake that needed to be erased, a problem that needed to be removed from existence. "I'm going to delete you the way I want. Methodically. Completely. Thoroughly." He stood perfectly still as he spoke, his posture relaxed in a way that was somehow more threatening than aggressive body language would have been, that suggested he was so confident in his ability to do what he was promising that he didn't need to posture, didn't need to perform, didn't need to do anything except state facts. "

The return to consciousness was gradual.Not the sudden awakening of natural sleep, but the slow, reluctant emergence that comes after trauma, after the body and mind have both tried to shut down to protect themselves and are being forced back online by external stimuli.The first thing David became aware of was pain.Not localized pain—everywhere pain.Pain that radiated from his torso, from his legs, from his shoulder, from his head, pain that was so comprehensive, so total, that for the first few seconds of consciousness he couldn't separate himself from it, couldn't identify where his body ended and the pain began.The second thing was sound.Voices—multiple voices, talking in low tones, professional cadences, the particular rhythm of people who are working, who are focused on tasks, who are communicating information efficiently.The third thing was the smell.Antiseptic.The distinctive chemical smell of medical facilities, of places where cleanliness is paramount, where surfaces

Marcus moved, and it was Fast.Covered the distance to the table in three quick steps, moving with speed that belied his age, moving with the energy of someone whose rage was providing momentum.His hand came down on the table—not quite a slam, but forceful enough to make a sound, to make the impact felt, to physically manifest his fury and his demand for attention."Are you deaf?" Marcus said, and his voice had fully committed to anger now, had abandoned any pretense of civility or restraint. "Are you deaf? I said the person who did this—I want him now. NOW. Not in ten minutes. Not after you finish your procedures. Not after you've done whatever bureaucratic paperwork you think is necessary. Now. Immediately. This second."Morrison's expression didn't change.Didn't show anger or intimidation or any response to Marcus's aggression.Just maintained that same professional neutrality, that same calm that suggested he had dealt with angry powerful people before, that their displays of te

The revision of events was becoming more elaborate, more divorced from documented reality, more desperate in its attempt to construct a narrative that would exonerate David and vilify everyone else."You have the audacity to be uttering this nonsense," Marcus said, and his voice had acquired heat now, had lost the calculated control he had been maintaining. "This absolute nonsense about my son being some kind of perpetrator when anyone with eyes can see that he's injured, that he's damaged, that he's the one who needs protection and justice and proper handling of his case."He was fully worked up now—face flushed again, voice raised, body language aggressive in ways that suggested his usual strategies were not working and he was defaulting to intimidation, to volume, to the kind of display of anger that had probably worked for him in business contexts, in social contexts, in situations where people were more susceptible to being bulldozed."Well," Marcus said, his tone shifting to som