The Eye of the Beholder

[Sören]

She glared, despite being the one to have invaded his space. Sören’s expression remained flat, even as she took possession of his wrist. The touch was an annoyance he was not best comfortable with, but physical retaliation was not high amongst his instincts, and insult made little obvious dent to her demeanour so far. Thus he weathered in silence, and considered alternative routes to rid himself of her company. At least until she said the first thing that actually sparked interest: that she was in fact a doctor.

“What you need, is my consent, Nina.” Unforthcoming, of course. She might feel a samaritan's pull to the cause, but she was mistaken to bestow that concern on him. He would not thank her for it. Whatever rosy glow pushed others to altruism, disappointment would come to sour her recollection of having stopped. Sören didn’t doubt that. “Experimental tech has its drawbacks,” he said finally. He glanced down at the numbers he’d drawn on his arm, the itch of temptation crawling up the back of his skull like obsession. The pain was inconsequential if it provided answers, but if the eye glitched again while the woman lingered she’d be harder to shake off. Patience was among his virtues. But it didn’t mean he didn’t still find it an irritation to have to wait.

He pushed the flask away with the back of his other hand. “I’m looking for someone. A junior doctor at the Guardian until recently, when she was suspended from duty. Her name is Morven Kinnaird.”