Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
George Russell wasn't looking for trouble.
The email arrived on an ordinary Tuesday, buried among academic invitations and requests for article reviews that he already knew he would refuse. The sender, however, was unusual. Nor was the subject.
Saint Bartholomew - Confidential Consultation.
He opened it without thinking. The text was short. Dry. No attempt at intellectual seduction. Just facts: a temporary position, absolute confidentiality, full access to the clinical files of a specific patient. The name didn't appear there. Not yet.
George leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. This smelled of trouble—and he recognized that smell better than he would like.
The phone rang before he could close the email.
"Dr. Russell," said a firm female voice. "This is Eleanor Whitmore. I believe you received my message."
George looked out the office window. It was raining.
"I received it," he replied. “I haven’t decided yet whether to read this as an invitation or a warning.”
She let out a slight sigh, almost an invisible smile.
“Read this as your last chance for conscious refusal.”
That caught his attention.
Hours later, George sat in a meeting room that seemed too large for two people. Whitmore slid a thick folder across the table. She didn’t ask him to sign anything. Yet.
“Before you open it,” she said, “I need you to understand one thing. This isn’t a rehabilitation case. It’s not redemption. It’s containment… hopefully.”
George placed his hand on the cover.
“Then why me?” Whitmore held his gaze.
“Because you don’t believe in monsters.”
He opened the folder.
Photos. Reports. Transcribed recordings. A family history that was too short. A crime described with excessive precision. Each page seemed calculated to provoke a reaction—and yet, George felt something different.
Inconsistency.
“This was closed too quickly,” he murmured.
Whitmore didn’t answer.
“There are gaps,” he continued. “Contradictory accounts. A testimony that changes after the presence of political figures…”
“Doctor,” she interrupted, “we’re not here to reopen the case.”
George looked up.
“Then you’re here to make sure nobody does.”
Silence.
“The patient’s name is Max Verstappen,” Whitmore said finally. “He’s been under maximum restraint for years. All the professionals who got too close requested to be removed… or worse.”
“And yet you want someone new.”
“We want someone who won’t run away,” she replied. “Someone who can bear to look without needing to turn it into faith or condemnation.”
George closed the file slowly.
“What did he do?”
Whitmore took a second longer than acceptable.
“Officially? He killed his own family.”
George nodded thoughtfully. — And unofficially?
— He made the system work exactly as designed.
The rain beat harder against the window.
— There are rules, — she said, sliding another document through her. — Many. Emotional distance. Physical barriers. No exceptions. If you accept, you cannot plead ignorance.
George read the warnings. One by one.
Don't be alone.
Don't try to understand him too much.
Don't confuse attention with control.
He took a deep breath.
— And if I say no?
Whitmore was honest.
— We'll find someone else. Someone less attentive. Someone who doesn't ask questions.
George smiled slightly.
— And Max?
— Max will continue watching, — she replied. — He always watches.
George signed.
Not because he thought he was special.
Not out of heroism.
But because, upon closing that folder, he had the unsettling feeling that someone, somewhere, was already waiting for him.
That night, when he got home, George searched the name for the first time outside of official files.
He found nothing beyond what he already knew.
Still, before going to sleep, he had a strange thought—almost ridiculous:
Some choices aren't made.
They're acknowledged.
And, without knowing it, George Russell had just accepted much more than a job, but something that would change his life forever.