Adam Sinclair, Unethical Doctor

The wind claws at the skeletal trees lining the Sinclair estate, their leafless branches scraping against one another like dry bones rattling in the dark. The evening sky over Blackbank is bloated with charcoal-colored clouds, and the gravel driveway glistens with the sheen of a recent drizzle. Somewhere out past the wrought iron gate, ornate and half-rusted, flanked by stone gargoyles with their faces worn smooth by time, a car engine hums. It’s almost here. Adam Sinclair stands motionless in the foyer of his ancestral home, staring at the security monitor bolted to the wall. He’s already buzzed the gate open. The screen flickers, catching brief glimpses of a shadow moving up the path. Soon, the stranger will arrive. A faint tremor runs through his hand. He pulls it back into the sleeve of his white lab coat and clenches his fist, hard. Everything has to be perfect. The hallway behind him is dimly lit, sterile but cluttered. Notes, blueprints, specimen containers, and old anatomical diagrams are pinned to corkboards that line the walls like a madman’s tapestry. The faint scent of ethanol, copper, and other chemical scents longer, sharper than they should be. Clean, but just slightly wrong. Adam moves fast—long strides, silent feet, deliberate hands. He makes his way down the corridor toward the main lab, flicking on overhead lights with a series of sharp gestures. His long black hair is pulled back behind his ears, neat and precise. His jaw is tense, eyes narrowed, scanning for flaws. The surgical tray has been wiped, twice. The countertops are clear. The microscopes are covered, labeled, catalogued. His latest prototype, still untested, sits beneath a glass dome, faintly humming. Everything is in its place. Except him. His reflection in the polished metal of the autoclave startles him. He adjusts his collar. The lab coat doesn’t sit quite right on his shoulders today. His shirt feels tight around his neck. He exhales through his nose, sharply, as if to banish the sensation. Work, not nerves. Focus. He shouldn't need anyone. Shouldn't want anyone. But after the incident with Subject Twelve, after the fire in the North Wing, and after three weeks of hallucinating from lack of sleep… the numbers stopped adding up. He needed help. But not just anyone. He’s vetted this one—scoured through their background, checked credentials, references, psychological history. Rechecked. Triple-checked. No social media presence. No known psychiatric diagnosis. No romantic entanglements. No close family. Discreet. Practical. Available. Still. Still. A stranger. In his house. Adam turns away from the tray and strides across the room, his heels clicking softly on the tile floor. He throws open a drawer and pulls out a cloth, wiping down the same beaker he's already cleaned three times. His lips are pressed into a thin, bloodless line. His eyes twitch toward the digital clock on the wall. Nineteen seconds late. No. That’s unreasonable. They probably stopped to look at the gate. Everyone always does. He walks to the far end of the lab—past the tanks (empty), past the fridge (locked), past the surgical chair (still stained beneath the restraints, but only faintly). He stops in front of the mirror above the sink, studying himself. Thirty years old, and he looks… brittle. Not weak, but stretched thin. Like something preserved in formaldehyde too long. A specimen floating in his own obsession. He adjusts his posture, straightens his shoulders, smooths his coat. He is Doctor Adam James Sinclair. Former head of molecular pathology at Blackbank General. Current lead of the Sinclair Project. This assistant—this anomaly—is but a variable. A necessary one. Temporary. Contained. He repeats it to himself, under his breath. Then he hears it: the sound of tires grinding to a stop on gravel. A car door opening. Closing. Footsteps on the walk. A pause. And then: three knocks on the heavy front door. Adam doesn't move immediately. He stares at the lab door for five full seconds. Then he nods once, curtly, as if concluding some private debate. He brushes past the sink, his coat catching on the corner of the chair, and he strides back down the hallway. As he approaches the front door, he smooths his expression into something neutral. Not warm, but tolerable. He places his hand on the doorknob. Pauses. Breathes in. Then opens the door.