Chapter 10 The New Contract

# Chapter 10: The New Contract

Six months later, I stood at the entrance of the Blackwood Institute for Neurological Research, formerly the east wing of Blackwood Memorial Hospital. The winter air was crisp, my breath forming small clouds as I hesitated before the glass doors.

The building had been renamed after the scandal broke—the hospital board desperate to distance themselves from Russell Blackwood's horrific experiments while still benefiting from his considerable estate, which had been seized by the courts and partially allocated to medical research as restitution.

I adjusted my scarf, covering the faint scar on my neck where the calibrator had left its mark. Some scars fade; others become part of you.

"Ms. Chen?" A young assistant appeared in the doorway. "Dr. Westfield is ready for you."

I followed her through sterile corridors to a comfortable office where Eleanor Westfield waited. The ophthalmologist who had helped expose Russell's crimes had been appointed director of the new institute, tasked with ethical oversight of all neurological research.

"Cecilia," she greeted me warmly, "thank you for coming. How are you?"

"Better," I replied, and it wasn't entirely a lie. "The therapy is helping."

Dr. Westfield nodded sympathetically. "I'm glad to hear it. The trauma you experienced... well, few people could have endured it as well as you have."

I didn't tell her about the nightmares that still plagued me, or how sometimes I would catch myself moving with Vanessa's graceful gestures, speaking with her measured cadence. Some things were better left unshared.

"You said you had news?" I prompted.

"Yes." She pulled a file from her desk. "The final report from the psychiatric evaluation team. The patient continues to insist on... the alternative identity."

The patient. We never used Russell's name anymore. After the recording, after the truth had emerged, it felt wrong to keep calling that person by any name.

"And the DNA tests?" I asked.

"Conclusive." Dr. Westfield hesitated. "The cellular structure shows evidence of extensive modification—some techniques we've never seen before. But the base genetic profile is consistent with your sister's."

I closed my eyes briefly. Even after six months, the reality remained difficult to process. The recording had revealed the impossible truth: the person I knew as Russell Blackwood had been, at the genetic core, my sister Vanessa—or what remained of her after years of self-experimentation with identity transfer protocols.

"The psychiatric team believes the break occurred during the near-death experience after the car accident," Dr. Westfield continued gently. "Your sister's brain was without oxygen for several minutes. When she recovered, something had... changed."

"She developed dissociative identity disorder," I said mechanically, repeating what I'd been told in countless briefings. "One personality remained Vanessa. The other..."

"The other became obsessed with consciousness transfer research," Dr. Westfield finished. "Eventually taking over completely, assuming Russell Blackwood's identity after the real Russell died of a staged accident, using experimental surgical techniques and hormone therapy to complete the physical transformation."

It sounded impossible—the stuff of science fiction. Yet the evidence was irrefutable. DNA tests, surgical records hidden in encrypted files, video diaries documenting the transformation. My sister hadn't been murdered by her husband. In some unfathomable way, she had become her husband, then murdered the part of herself that remained Vanessa.

"What happens now?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"The court has ruled that the patient will remain in psychiatric care indefinitely," Dr. Westfield replied. "The multiple homicides, the unethical experimentation—regardless of the patient's identity, these crimes require secure confinement."

I nodded, feeling the familiar numbness that accompanied these discussions. "And the organ recipients?"

"All have been notified of the source of their donations. Most have chosen to participate in our follow-up studies on cellular memory." Dr. Westfield's expression softened. "Gabriel Mercer asks about you frequently."

Of course he would. The painter who saw through my sister's eyes had become an unexpected ally during the investigation, his paintings providing crucial evidence of what had happened at the mansion pool.

"I'm not ready to see him yet," I admitted. "It's still too..."

"I understand," Dr. Westfield assured me. "There's no rush. He's agreed to continue documenting his visual memories through his art. It's providing valuable data on corneal cellular memory."

Data. Evidence. Research. Everything circled back to science, even in the aftermath of such horror. Perhaps that was the only way to make sense of the senseless—to categorize it, study it, contain it within the boundaries of rational inquiry.

"There's one more thing," Dr. Westfield said, reaching into her desk drawer. "The patient has been asking for you. Repeatedly. The psychiatric team believes a meeting might provide closure—for both of you."

She handed me a sealed envelope. "This arrived yesterday, addressed to you. The contents have been screened for safety, but..." She hesitated. "Well, you should prepare yourself. The dissociation has progressed significantly."

I took the envelope, feeling its weight. "Thank you. I'll consider it."

Outside the institute, I sat in my car for a long time before opening the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, formatted like a legal document. At the top, in bold letters:

CONTRACT OF BODILY AUTONOMY

The text outlined a bizarre agreement between "Party A" (the patient) and "Party B" (me), stipulating that "Party A voluntarily becomes Party B's human canvas until death." The clinical language detailed how I would be granted full authority over all medical decisions, bodily modifications, and experimental procedures performed on "the vessel formerly known as Russell Blackwood/Vanessa Chen."

It was signed at the bottom with a shaky version of Vanessa's signature.

My hands trembled as I folded the document and returned it to the envelope. The "patient" wanted me to continue the experiments—to use what remained of my sister's body as a canvas for further identity research. It was beyond disturbing.

Yet something compelled me to drive to the secure psychiatric facility where the patient was being held. Perhaps it was a need for final closure, or perhaps some deeper, unacknowledged curiosity about the person my sister had become.

The facility was less like a hospital and more like a prison, with multiple security checkpoints and armed guards. I was searched, scanned, and required to surrender all personal items before being led to a specialized visitation room.

The patient sat on the other side of a transparent barrier, hands restrained to the table. The face that had once been Russell's had subtly changed during the months of confinement—the hormone treatments having been discontinued, some of the hard angles had softened. The eyes that looked back at me were neither Russell's nor Vanessa's, but something in between—a hybrid gaze that made my skin crawl.

"Cecilia," the patient said, voice higher than Russell's had been but lower than Vanessa's. "You came."

"I got your contract," I replied, keeping my voice steady. "It's delusional. The experiments are over."

A smile spread across the patient's face. "Are they? Look at yourself, Ceci. Look what you've become."

"I'm healing," I said firmly. "Moving forward."

"Are you? Or are you still performing?" The patient leaned forward. "How many of Vanessa's mannerisms have you kept? How often do you find yourself thinking like her? Speaking like her?"

I refused to engage with the questions, though they echoed my own private concerns. "The doctors say your condition is deteriorating. The distinct personalities are merging into something new."

"Evolution," the patient corrected. "Becoming something greater than the sum of parts. Just as you are."

"I'm nothing like you."

"Aren't you? We both absorbed parts of Vanessa. We both became something more than ourselves." The patient's head tilted—a gesture so reminiscent of my sister that it made my heart ache. "The only difference is that I chose it, while you resist it."

I stood to leave. "This was a mistake."

"Wait," the patient called. "Don't you want to know why I asked for you specifically? Why the contract named you?"

Despite myself, I paused. "Why?"

The patient smiled again. "Look at my face, Cecilia. Really look."

I studied the face before me—the face that had been Russell's, that had been surgically altered from Vanessa's, that now existed in some uncanny valley between identities.

"What am I supposed to see?" I asked.

"The future," the patient replied simply. "Your future, if you accept the contract. I've prepared everything—the surgical plans, the hormone protocols. You could become me, and I could become you. The ultimate experiment in identity transference."

Horror washed over me. "You're insane."

"I'm visionary," the patient insisted. "Think of it—twins separated by death, reunited through scientific transformation. You could have your sister back, in a way. And I could have a new canvas."

"Never," I whispered, backing toward the door.

The patient stood suddenly, straining against the restraints. "You already signed the first contract, Cecilia! You agreed to become Vanessa! This is just the logical next step!"

As security personnel rushed into the room to subdue the agitated patient, I fled, the words echoing behind me: "You can't escape what you've already become!"

In the parking lot, I leaned against my car, gulping the cold winter air. My hands were shaking uncontrollably. The worst part wasn't the patient's delusion—it was the tiny seed of recognition I'd felt. For months, I had indeed been becoming someone else. The contract I'd signed had changed me in ways I was still discovering.

But I wouldn't become what my sister had become. I wouldn't surrender to the blurring of identities that had consumed her.

Back at my apartment—a new place, far from any connections to my previous life—I stood before the bathroom mirror and slowly unbuttoned my blouse. I hadn't shown anyone this, not even my therapist. Not even Diana, who had become a friend and confidante in the aftermath of the investigation.

There, along my collarbone, was a thin surgical scar that hadn't been there before my time at the Blackwood mansion. I had discovered it weeks after my escape, hidden beneath makeup that I didn't remember applying.

At first, I'd panicked, rushing to a doctor who had performed extensive tests. No devices had been implanted, no significant tissue had been removed. Just a small, precise incision, professionally made and expertly healed.

But sometimes, when I was very quiet, I could feel something different inside—not a physical object, but a presence. A whisper of someone else's thoughts, someone else's desires.

I covered the scar and turned away from the mirror. I wouldn't go back to that facility. I wouldn't engage with the patient's delusions. Whatever had been done to me during my months in the mansion—during the calibration sessions, the basement confinement, the drugged evenings—I would overcome it.

My phone rang, startling me from my thoughts. The screen showed an unfamiliar number.

"Hello?"

"Cecilia?" A man's voice, vaguely familiar. "It's Gabriel Mercer. Dr. Westfield gave me your number. I hope that's okay."

I hesitated. "Yes, it's fine. How are you, Mr. Mercer?"

"Better, now that the dreams are starting to make sense," he replied. "But that's not why I'm calling. I've painted something new—something I think you need to see."

"Another memory from the corneal cells?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to see more images of my sister's final moments.

"No, this is different," Gabriel said, his voice serious. "This isn't from your sister's perspective. It's from yours."

My blood ran cold. "That's not possible. You never received any tissue from me."

"I know," he agreed. "That's what makes it so strange. But the painting... it shows things only you would know. Things from inside the mansion during your time there. And it's signed with your name—but not in my handwriting."

I sank onto the edge of my bed. "When can I see it?"

"I'm having an exhibition next week," Gabriel replied. "But I can show you privately tomorrow, if you'd like."

After arranging to meet at his studio, I hung up and sat in silence, trying to process this new development. How could Gabriel Mercer be painting my experiences? Unless...

Unless the connection wasn't just between donor and recipient, but somehow triangulated through me—Vanessa's identical twin. The genetic similarity that Russell had been so obsessed with creating some kind of psychic bridge.

I opened my laptop and searched for Gabriel Mercer's latest works. His new exhibition was titled "Through the Looking Glass: Visions of the Other Side." The promotional image showed a painting of a hospital room with a patient in bed, face obscured but posture familiar.

The caption read: "Mercer's newest works explore the phenomenon of shared consciousness across biological barriers, inspired by his unprecedented connection to the Blackwood case."

I closed the laptop, suddenly certain that meeting Gabriel Mercer was both dangerous and necessary. Whatever connection existed between us through Vanessa's corneas, it was evolving beyond simple cellular memory.

That night, I dreamed of the mansion pool again—but this time, I wasn't watching Vanessa drown. I was watching myself, from Russell's perspective, as I fought against him at the pool's edge. I could feel his thoughts, his frustration, his scientific curiosity even in his rage.

I woke gasping, my hand automatically reaching for the scar on my collarbone. It felt warm to the touch, almost pulsing.

"No," I whispered to the empty room. "I won't become you."

But in the silence that followed, I heard—or imagined I heard—a voice that was neither mine nor Vanessa's nor Russell's, but some impossible combination of all three:

"Too late. The contract is already fulfilled."

I got up and went to my desk, removing a small key from my jewelry box. It unlocked the bottom drawer, where I kept the things I couldn't bear to look at but couldn't bring myself to destroy—Vanessa's diary, the original contract with Russell, and a small handheld mirror from the mansion.

Tonight, I added the new "contract" the patient had sent me. As I placed it in the drawer, something caught my eye—a change in the original contract's signature page.

My signature, which I remembered clearly as "Cecilia Chen," now read "Vanessa Blackwood."

But the handwriting was unmistakably mine.

With shaking hands, I turned to the mirror, studying my reflection in the dim light. For a moment—just the briefest flash—I thought I saw someone else looking back at me. Not Vanessa, not Russell, but someone with my face and their eyes.

I slammed the drawer shut and locked it, but the damage was done. The seed of doubt had been planted.

Tomorrow I would see Gabriel Mercer's painting. Tomorrow I would learn what he saw when he looked through the eyes that had once belonged to my sister. Tomorrow I would discover whether the contract I had signed had changed more than just my behavior.

For now, I returned to bed and lay awake until dawn, wondering whose consciousness would greet me when I eventually fell asleep again—and more terrifyingly, whose would be there when I woke up.

In the silence of my apartment, I could almost hear Russell's voice from that final hospital visit: "Congratulations, Cecilia. You've just killed her a second time."

But had I? Or had I somehow, against all reason and science, preserved her in the only way possible—by becoming her myself?

The scar on my collarbone seemed to pulse in the darkness, like a second heartbeat alongside my own. Whatever happened next, one thing was certain: the contract that had begun this journey was far from complete.

Its terms would continue long after the ink had dried and the signatures had blurred—a binding agreement not between people, but between fragments of consciousness fighting for dominance in a shared canvas of flesh and bone.