Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Protocol
By Thursday evening, the atmosphere in the Mercer estate had shifted from an absolute standstill to a cold, watchful peace. Waverly had refused to sleep in the staff quarters downstairs. Instead, she had dragged a heavy velvet armchair between the twins' beds, sitting where she could touch Jonah's left foot and Blythe's right hand at the same time.
At 2:14 a.m., the door to the medical wing opened with a faint, lubricated hiss.
A young man in a white lab coat—one of the night-shift technicians hired through Dr. Yates’ private clinic—stepped into the room carrying a fresh tray of clear glass vials. His name was Peter Cole, a medical assistant whose brother owed sixty thousand dollars to a rival South Side crew run by a man named Silvio Valetti.
Waverly didn't move an inch. She kept her eyes closed, breathing in the slow, rhythmic pattern of someone deep in sleep, but her ears were tracking every sound. She had learned to read the night sounds of a hospital room two years ago; she knew the difference between the sound of a routine saline change and the nervous, frantic clinking of glass.
Peter reached Blythe’s IV line. His hands were shaking so badly that one of the plastic caps fell from his fingers, bouncing softly against the carpet. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pre-filled syringe that didn't have the standard blue hospital validation label.
Waverly opened her eyes.
"What is that?" she asked quietly.
The technician jumped, nearly dropping the syringe as he turned to face her. The room was dark save for the moonlight pouring through the glass, casting long, skeletal shadows across his pale face. "It’s... it’s the scheduled evening booster. For her red blood cell count. Dr. Yates left instructions."
Waverly stood up slowly. She looked at the syringe, then at the technician’s eyes. He wasn't looking at her; he was looking at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. A camera that, unknown to him, had been temporarily looped by a digital override code twenty minutes prior.
"Dr. Yates always logs his boosters on the digital chart by the door," Waverly said, her voice completely flat as she walked around Blythe's bed, putting herself directly between the man and the child. "Show me the authorization log on your tablet."
"I don't have to show you anything," Peter hissed, his voice cracking with fear as his thumb pressed against the plunger of the needle. "Get out of my way, lady. I have a job to do."
He lunged forward, trying to reach the rubber port on Blythe’s secondary line.
Waverly didn't scream. Screaming would wake the children. Instead, she reached out, her fingers locking around Peter’s wrist with the surprising, desperate strength of a mother who had already lost everything. She twisted his arm downward, forcing the needle away from the medical stand just as the heavy oak door was violently kicked off its latch.
Lawson Mercer stepped into the room like a physical manifestation of wrath.
He didn't look at the technician. He grabbed the back of the man's lab coat, lifting him completely off his feet and slamming him into the reinforced glass window of the observation room. The glass didn't break, but the sound of Peter's nose shattering echoed through the space like a pistol shot.
"Prescott!" Lawson roared.
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Within three seconds, Prescott and two large guards were in the room, their weapons drawn.
"Take him to the basement," Lawson commanded, his fingers still locked around the technician's throat as the man choked on his own blood. "Find out who paid him. If he dies before he gives you a name, you will take his place."
