“And if Crane lied?” I asked.
His eyes hardened.
“Then he decided what my life was worth.”
The independent physicians arrived that afternoon.
New scans showed severe old damage, extensive scar tissue, spinal narrowing, and muscle wasting.
But the cord had not been completely severed.
The original injury had been devastating, yet incomplete.
There were surviving neural pathways.
The toxicology results arrived shortly after midnight.
The syringe contained a potent combination of muscle relaxants and sedatives at a concentration far above what appeared in Sebastian’s chart.
The pump reservoir contained the same primary medication, continuously delivered at the highest end of the therapeutic range.
The doctors were careful with their language.
The drugs had legitimate uses.
Sebastian had likely needed some form of spasticity control after the bombing.
But the dosage, the undocumented injections, and the absence of regular independent review were indefensible.
Long-term suppression had kept his legs weak, unresponsive, and easy to classify as permanently useless.
Crane had taken an incomplete injury and turned it into a life sentence.
When Sebastian heard the findings, he closed his eyes.
He did not shout.
He did not order anyone hurt.
He simply asked, “How long?”
The neurologist answered quietly.
“The questionable treatment began within a year of your injury.”
Nineteen years.
Sebastian had lost nineteen years not only to the bomb, but to a man who had stood beside his hospital bed and promised to protect him.
The pump dosage had to be reduced gradually.
The doctors transferred control of it to an independent hospital team.
Sebastian refused to leave the mansion, so secure monitoring equipment was brought in.
During the first forty-eight hours, his legs cramped violently.
Sweat soaked his shirt.
His blood pressure rose and fell.
More than once, he looked at me as if Crane’s warning had been right.
“Put it back,” he said through clenched teeth during the worst spasm.
“We can slow the reduction,” I told him.
“But we don’t go backward because this hurts.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“No.
Easy would be lying to you.”
He hated me for several minutes.
Then he nodded.
By the fourth day, sensation began returning in fragments.
Not normal sensation.
Burning in one ankle.
Pressure behind one knee.
A sharp electric feeling when I moved his right foot.
On the sixth day, I asked him to look away and tell me which toe I touched.
He guessed wrong twice.
On the third attempt, he said, “The big toe.”
He was right.
Gabriel turned toward the window so no one would see his face.
Sebastian only whispered, “Again.”
While his body changed, the folder kept growing.
Gabriel uncovered shell rehabilitation companies owned through trusts controlled by Crane.
Bills had been submitted for aquatic therapy, robotic walking equipment, nerve stimulation, and specialist consultations that never happened.
Several famous physicians had visited the mansion over the years, but Crane had supplied their scans, medication histories, and examination notes in advance.
Sebastian was always heavily medicated before they arrived.
