Chapter 6 Blood and Boundaries

Emma Stone - POV

I corner Ryan in his private study an hour after seeing Kane's experiments, my hands still trembling from the underground footage.

"I want to see my grandmother's real medical files," I demand, closing the door behind me. "The actual records from when she died. Not whatever sanitized version exists in the official database."

Ryan doesn't look up from his medical journal immediately. When he does, his gray eyes hold that familiar clinical assessment, but something else lurks beneath - reluctance.

"Those files were sealed by the university board twenty years ago. Even accessing them would trigger security alerts."

"Then we trigger them." I cross my arms. "I need to understand what killed her. What Kane is trying to replicate."

"Emma." He closes the journal with deliberate care. "Some knowledge comes with a price you can't afford to pay."

"The price of ignorance is higher."

He studies me for a long moment, and I feel his analytical mind working through our psychic link. "There's another way to understand what your grandmother experienced. More direct than files."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean experiencing death firsthand. Through someone else."

The silence stretches between us until Ryan moves to his window, staring down at the medical wing with unusual tension in his shoulders.

"There's a patient," he says finally. "Terminal brain cancer. Hours left, maybe less."

My throat tightens. "Ryan, what are you suggesting?"

"Your grandmother's abilities manifested strongest during death experiences. If you want to understand what Kane is after, what she's trying to steal..." He turns back to me, and I've never seen him look less clinical. "Through our bond, I could connect you to someone's final moments. You'd experience death without dying."

The words hang in the air like a physical presence. "That's insane."

"Yes. It's also the fastest way to develop the abilities you'll need to survive Kane's plans."

I think about the girl strapped to Kane's table, her screams as machines overloaded her brain. About Kai's painting showing all of us dead in three weeks. About twenty years of manipulation I never even knew was happening.

"What are the risks?"

"Permanent psychological trauma. Possible psychotic break. Death, if something goes wrong with the connection." His honesty cuts through me like ice. "Emma, I've seen what happens to people who experience death prematurely. Most never recover."

"And if I don't do this?"

"Kane wins. And we all die anyway."

Ryan pulls a small device from his desk drawer—something that looks like a cross between a stethoscope and a tablet. "This monitors psychic resonance during medical procedures. It's experimental, but it should keep our connection stable during the experience."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then we'll find out together."

The walk to the terminal ward feels endless. Ryan uses his medical credentials to get us past security, but I catch the way nurses look at us—like they know something unusual is happening but don't want to ask questions.

"Her name is Margaret Chen," Ryan says as we stop outside room 314. "Retired literature professor. No family. She's been unconscious for thirty-six hours."

Through the doorway, I see a frail woman surrounded by machines. Even from here, the approaching death feels like a weight pressing against my consciousness.

"The connection will be intense," Ryan warns, attaching sensors to my temples. "You'll experience everything she experiences, but remember—you're not dying. You're observing."

I sit beside Margaret's bed, her hand cool and papery in mine. The moment our skin touches, I feel her fading life force like candlelight in wind.

"Ready?" Ryan asks, finger hovering over the activation switch.

"Do it."

The world shatters.

Pain explodes through my skull—not physical, but something deeper. Memories cascade through my mind in fragments: a young woman grading papers, elderly hands tending roses, the smell of old books and fresh coffee. Margaret's entire life compressed into heartbeats of overwhelming sensation.

But beneath the memories, I feel her awareness. Weak but present. And she's not afraid.

Peace, her consciousness whispers to mine. Finally.

Through the psychic link, I experience her body's shutdown—the struggle for oxygen, the gradual failure of organs, the way consciousness narrows to a single point of light. It should be terrifying. Instead, Margaret's calm acceptance flows through me like a warm tide.

Tell them, she says suddenly, her mental voice gaining unexpected strength. Tell them about the woman with winter eyes.

"What?" I whisper aloud.

She was there the night you were born. Chose you before you drew breath. The ice-eyed woman—she's been preparing your path for twenty years.

The monitors flat-line with a long, steady tone that echoes through my bones. Margaret's hand goes limp, but something impossible happens. Her psychic energy doesn't fade away—it flows directly into me, settling into my consciousness like water finding its level.

Ryan shuts off the equipment with shaking hands. "Emma? Talk to me."

I sit back, stunned by how different I feel. Margaret's lifetime of experiences hasn't overwhelmed me—it's integrated seamlessly with my own awareness, making me more than I was moments before. Stronger. Clearer.

"Kane didn't start watching me at Blackwood," I say slowly. "She's been planning this since I was born."

"That's impossible." Ryan checks my pulse. "Kane would have been a child."

"Not Kane directly. Someone else. Someone with winter eyes who knew exactly what I would become."

The door opens, and a nurse enters with paperwork. She freezes when she sees me, her face draining of color.

"You shouldn't be here," she says, but her voice carries an odd note of recognition.

"We have authorization," Ryan says smoothly, already moving to leave.

But I catch the nurse watching me with the same expression Dean Mills wore after the binding—fear mixed with something that looks like reverence.

In the hallway, Ryan grabs my arm. "Emma, what just happened—absorbing energy from the dying—that's not supposed to be possible. Conduits channel power, they don't accumulate it."

"Then maybe I'm not just a conduit."

"What are you?"

I think about Margaret's peaceful acceptance, her revelation about lifelong surveillance, the way her energy merged so naturally with mine. For the first time since this nightmare began, I'm asking the right questions.

"I don't know yet," I admit. "But I'm going to find out."

We reach the elevator, and the doors slide open to reveal Dr. Kane stepping out. Her ice-blue eyes meet mine with a smile that doesn't touch the rest of her face.

"Emma, dear. What perfect timing." Her gaze shifts to the covered gurney being wheeled past us—Margaret's body. "I trust your visit to the terminal ward was... educational?"

The way she says it makes my blood freeze. She knows. She's known exactly where I was and what I was doing.

"Death can teach us so much about life," Kane continues pleasantly. "Especially when properly channeled." Her eyes glitter with satisfaction. "I do hope you learned something valuable about your true nature."