The time for theoretical hypothesis is done. The only way to test my theory is to administer the reagent.

As I descend the stairs, I hear a scratching noise. I draw back the curtain to find Blakely scraping the edge of the chain against the cement floor.

She looks up, her hair tangled over her shoulders. Apparently she was right about the shampoo, but the wild look is sexy on her. Everything is sexy on her.

“No TV. No books. If you don’t kill me, the boredom will,” she says. “Figured I’d compose my autobiography right here on the floor. Give the next subject something entertaining to read.”

The disdain in her voice gives me hope that my timing is right. She cannot be lethargic or uncommitted. Some range of emotion is needed as a base for the treatment to be a success.

I head to the cart and unwrap a sterile syringe. She hasn’t questioned what she saw upstairs—or what transpired between us. She hasn’t pushed…because she knows it’s a sensitive matter. She’s either wary about forcing the subject, or she’s saving it for later. An ace up her sleeve that she can use to unnerve me.

“I’ll bring you a journal,” I say, as I hold the vial up to fill the syringe.

“With a pen?”

“Of course.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll stab my jugular?”

I turn to face her, and her gaze goes to the syringe in my hand. “I didn’t perceive you as suicidal. Should I be worried?”

Blakely drops the chain, purposeful in her intent to cause a disturbance. “As you studied me, stalked me, know everything about me…I guess you don’t have that to worry about.”

I hold up the syringe and flick the tube, ridding it of any bubbles. I decide to steal her thunder, as it were, and remove the future opportunity to vilify me with her words.

Taking a seat on the stool opposite her, I say, “In my room, every clock was set to the conception of a new idea. A hypothesis. A theory. An experiment. A subject. Anything of importance that I deemed deserving of documentation, I made it tangible by giving it a way to track its own timeline.”

Blakely brings her legs beneath her, chains rattling with her movement. “Well, your little room of horror looks a lot like if Salvador Dali painted his version of a void.”

Amused, I raise an eyebrow. “Your assessment isn’t far off. That void’s name is Musou black. The blackest paint in existence. It consumes light, allowing nothing to reflect off its surface. I wanted only my clocks to exist in the room.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You believe I know so much about you, therefore I feel you should know something about me in return.”

“Do I have a clock, Alex?”

A hesitant pause, then: “Yes.”