“That wasn’t anxiety, Mr. Whitaker.”
Carter reached down, hooked two fingers beneath the collar of my faded linen blouse, and ripped the top two mother-of-pearl buttons away from the fabric:
*SNAP-SNAP.*
Exposed beneath the hollow of my right clavicle…
Taped flat against my pale skin with four strips of reinforced, waterproof surgical adhesive…
Was a three-inch circular, flesh-colored transdermal delivery patch.
The matrix of the patch was not domestic clear silicone. It was woven from an unreflective, military-grade amber synthetic polymer, stamped in black indelible ink with a ten-digit federal defense manufacturing lot code and a single, capitalized red chemical identifier:
`VALKYRIE BIO-PHARMA // LOT: 2026-NEURO-09`
`COMPOUND: SUFENTANIL-CHLORPROMAZINE ADMIXTURE`
`DOSAGE: 500 MCG/HR // EXTENDED RELEASE`
`RESTRICTED: CLASS ONE EXPERIMENTAL // DOD & FDA CLINICAL HOLD`
The courtroom went completely, catastrophically dead.
Judge Hanley’s gavel slid from his fingers, clattering across his leather blotter:
*thud.*
Daniel Whitaker took half a step backward. His heel caught the caster of his leather executive chair, sending it rolling backward into the oak railing with a loud, hollow *bang.*
