Date: 18th January 1999 (Bristol)
The next morning after the highway erupted into a battlefield, the air in Bristol felt heavy, as if the smoke from the car blast had settled permanently into the lungs of the city. Denver stood before the mirror in the clinic's employee restroom, staring at it. His forehead was wrapped in a stark white bandage, a souvenir from his collision with the steering wheel. His left arm was in a temporary sling. He looked less like a doctor and more like a survivor from a accident.
When he stepped out into the hallway, a sharp gasp greeted him.
"Doctor! What on earth are you doing here?" Miss Mary hurried toward him, her hands fluttering in distress.
"I saw the news—the car crash, the fire! You were right in the middle of that horror. You should be in a hospital bed, not in a consultation room!"
Denver managed a stiff, tired nod. "I'm fine, Mary. Really. It looks worse than it is. Just a few scrapes and a headache."
"A headache? Doctor, there's a madness taking over this city," Mary lowered her voice, her eyes wide. "First the Professor, then that... that explosion. They say the man in the car was Brandon Taylor's servant, the one who killed him. And then someone shot him right through the windshield? It's like a movie, only people are actually dying."
"I know, Mary. I was there," Denver said, his voice sounding distant. "Please, I just need to focus on work. It's the only thing keeping me grounded."
Behind him, ten-year-old David stood silently, clutching his backpack. Elle had been furious this morning, a whirlwind of tears and shouting, refusing to let Denver leave the house in his condition. In the end, they had reached a tense compromise: he could go to the clinic only if he took David with him. Elle wanted an extra pair of eyes on her husband, even if they belonged to a child.
"David, why don't you sit in the breakroom?" Denver suggested, but the boy shook his head, his gaze fixed on the clinic's front entrance.
"I'll stay in the lobby, Dad," David said quietly.
Mary sighed, looking at the bruised pair. "Well, Tom is here. I told him you might cancel today's session but he insisted on waiting. He said he needed to talk to you."
"Send him in," Denver replied.
The session with Tom felt different today. Tom and his wife entered, the newborn cradled in a pink blanket. Tom sat down, but instead of launching into his own anxieties about his career, he went silent, staring at Denver's bandages.
"Doctor... maybe we should be the ones treating you today," Tom said softly. "You look like you've been through hell."
Denver went through the motions, guiding Tom through the stress-relief exercises they had discussed. But his mind was a fractured mirror. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the hole appearing in Luis's forehead. He saw the flash of the shot when Luis got killed.
"You're not here with me today, are you?" Tom asked gently midway through the hour.
Denver hesitated, then dropped his pen. "I'm sorry, Tom. It's been... a disturbing couple of days. The Professor was a mentor to me. Seeing his life ended like this, and then seeing the suspect killed right in front of my eyes... it's a lot to process."
For the first time, the roles were reversed. Tom and his wife stayed longer, offering Denver words of comfort. Mary brought in tea, and for a few minutes, the small office felt like a sanctuary. David came in and sat on the floor, playing quietly with the baby's rattle, and Denver felt the ice in his chest thaw slightly.
"You're dedicated, Doctor," Tom said, standing to leave. "You love this work. I can see it. But your family is the only thing that's real at the end of the day. Take a break. Stay with them."
"I think you're right," Denver admitted, glancing at David. "My wife has been saying the same thing. Then I'll take a few days off starting tomorrow."
As Tom and his family prepared to leave, David wandered back out to the lobby. He was scanning the faces of the few people waiting on the benches when he saw something.
There was a man sitting in the far corner, partially obscured by a potted plant, wore a plain gray jacket. He looked unremarkable, but David's memory was sharp. He remembered the party. He remembered the waiter who hadn't been serving drinks, the man who had been watching the Professor and his father with predatory intent at the party that night.
David tugged on Mary's sleeve. "That man," he whispered, pointing towards him. "I think he's a thief. I saw him at the Professor's house. He was acting weird then, and he's just sitting there now, watching everyone."
Mary's face paled. "The party? You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
Mary handed the baby she was holding back to Tom's wife and straightened her uniform. She was a protective woman by nature, and the idea of a mysterious man sitting in the hospital lobby set her teeth on edge. She marched toward the man.
"Can I help you with something, sir?" she asked, her voice was very sweet at the same time curious "Do you have an appointment?"
The man looked up, his eyes empty and cold. He didn't look like a patient; he looked like a hunter. He blinked, seemingly surprised by the confrontation. "No. I am just resting," he said, his voice was a flat monotone. Without another word, he stood up and walked out the glass doors, and then left from the hospital.
"Should we call the police?" David asked, his voice trembling.
"He's gone now, dear," Mary said, though she was shaking. "Let's just stay alert. It's a dangerous time."
The tension in the lobby snapped a moment later when Tom, distracted by his little daughter's laugh, accidentally bumped into a woman entering the clinic.
"Watch where you're going, you idiot!" the woman shrieked.
She was dressed in a sharp, expensive trench coat, her long dark hair perfectly styled, radiating an aura of cold arrogance. Tom and his wife stammered apologies, but the woman continued to berate them, her voice cutting through the quiet clinic like a blade.
Denver heard the noises and stepped out of his office. But when he saw the lady he stopped dead. His heart didn't just race; it seemed to freeze solid in his chest.
"Olivia?" he breathed.
The woman stopped shouting and turned. A slow, cruel smile spread across her lips.
"Hello, Jackson. It's been a long time."
Denver ignored the stares of his staff and patients. He grabbed Olivia by the arm and practically dragged her into his office, slamming the door shut.
"What are you doing here?" he hissed. "How did you find me?"
Olivia sat in the leather chair, crossing her legs with effortless grace. She pulled a cigarette from a silver case and moved to light it.
"Not here," Denver snapped, snatching the lighter from her hand.
Olivia exhaled a long, frustrated sigh and said, "Still so high and mighty. I can't believe you actually work in this pathetic little 'mental clinic.' It smells like cheap soap and failure."
"Don't change the subject," Denver growled, leaning over his desk. "How did you find my address?"
"Oh, Jackson. Do you really think you can hide from us? We know everything. We know about this place, we know about your lovely wife, and we know about your brave little boy playing outside the door."
Denver's blood turned to fire. "What do you want, you damn criminal? Get to the point!"
Olivia's smile vanished. She leaned forward, her eyes suddenly burning with an unnatural, piercing intensity. "Don't you ever yell at me again. You talk about criminals? Look in the mirror, Jackson. You're one of us. You're just as stained as I am."
She stood up, pacing the small room like a caged panther. "It's funny, really. You're feeling so much guilt for the man you killed with your own hands. I can feel it radiating off you—the shame, the terror. And right now, you're terrified of me because you think I've come to finish the job. You're thinking about your son, wondering if he'll be safe."
Denver recoiled as if she had struck him. "Of course you can read my emotions," he whispered. "You're a 'Psychic.' You always were the best at it."
Olivia laughed, "I've gotten much better, Jackson. My 'ability' has evolved and I mastered it completely. But let's stop the games. After that Taylor died we searched the manor. We searched the cars and lockers but The research documents—the real conclusion to Taylor's work—weren't there.
She stepped closer, her face inches from his. "We want the papers, Jackson. You were the golden boy of him. He would have given them to you. Tell me where they are, right now. I have orders to kill you if you refuse, and believe me, after all these years... I won't hesitate."