November 2nd, 2017 – Afternoon
The neurology ward had its own rhythm.
Monitors beeped in syncopated patterns. Shoes squeaked on polished floors. Voices stayed low, like everyone had quietly agreed not to startle the brains.
Asher sat by his mother's bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. The room light was dimmed to "recovery mode," which made the harsh lines of the machines look softer and his mother look almost peaceful, if you ignored the IV and the cannula and the faint crease between her brows.
He watched the heart monitor more than he watched her.
The green line rose and fell. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Her color—if he let his brain do that thing—was a faded gold, threaded with silver and something sharp. Like sunlight seen through dirty glass and barbed wire. When she slept, it dimmed but didn't disappear.
He stared until his eyes went dry.
"Mr Hale?"
He looked up.
The day nurse, Maya, stood in the doorway. Mid-thirties, neat ponytail, permanent dark-circles that said she'd forgotten what eight hours of sleep felt like. Her outline was a tired grey-blue: routine, concern, mild annoyance at the world.
"Do you need anything?" she asked. "Water? Coffee? Anti-gravity chair?"
"I'd take a new brain for her if you've got one," he said.
Maya's mouth twitched.
"We're out of those," she said. "We're checking on the one she has. Dr. Wade is reviewing her last scan. He'll be up around three."
Asher glanced at the clock. 2:24 p.m.
"Any changes?" he asked.
"No acute deterioration," Maya said, which was nurse-speak for she's not worse, that's the good news we have. "We're keeping everything as steady as we can. No medication changes until the neurologist signs off."
"No medication changes," he repeated.
"Right," she said. "If anyone tells you something different, press the call button and don't let them near the IV."
He blinked.
"That… sounds like a very specific instruction," he said.
"This is a big city hospital," Maya said. "Sometimes we get family members who think Google makes them doctors, and sometimes we get actual doctors who think the rules don't apply to them. Either way, if something feels wrong, hit the button. I'd rather be annoyed than apologizing."
Her colors stayed the same: grey-blue, tired but solid. No yellow.
He nodded slowly.
"Okay," he said. "I'll be annoying."
"Good," she said. "That's a son's job."
She straightened a line on the monitor, checked the IV pump, and left.
The door clicked shut.
Asher sat there a little longer, replaying her words.
If anyone tells you something different, press the button.
The thought of being responsible for pressing—or not pressing—that button made his stomach twist.
He stood.
"I'm getting coffee," he told his sleeping mother. "Try not to do anything dramatic while I'm gone."
She didn't answer. The monitor did.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
---
The corridor outside was busier than before. Families going in and out, staff moving with that efficient half-jog that said I'm in a hurry but no one is dying-dying yet.
Colors hung off people like invisible weather.
A teenage girl in a school uniform walked past with a man who must have been her father. The girl's outline was electric pink, brittle and spiking—anger, fear, humiliation. The man was dark blue-green, regret and duty tangled together.
At the waiting area, a kid kicked his feet against a chair, superhero backpack at his side. Bright orange pulsed around him: panic and the kind of anger that comes from watching adults not fix things fast enough. The woman next to him—his mother—had a tight dark green haze: fear wrapped around protectiveness, like vines around a fence.
Asher's brain catalogued it all whether he wanted it to or not.
He forced himself to look away and made for the vending machines. The coffee tasted like someone had burned a tree, but it was hot and bitter and real.
He pulled out his phone.
The search bar stared back at him.
He typed:
synesthesia see colors for sounds
Articles. Blogs. Definitions.
"Synesthesia is a condition in which one sense is simultaneously perceived as if by one or more additional senses…"
"…for most synesthetes, letters and numbers are reliably associated with colours…"
He scrolled, thumb jerking impatiently.
"…stable over time…"
"…not typically reactive to context in this way…"
Asher leaned his head against the cold wall.
"So that's a no," he muttered. "Not letters. Not music. Just… assholes."
He thought of Azad's "sunset over oil spill" colors in the Boardroom. The way half the table had flared yellow when anyone mentioned toxicology. The way Maya hadn't.
He opened a note.
Colour Notes – 11/2 – Hospital
Kid – bright orange → scared/angry.
Kid's mom – tight dark green → fear/protective.
Maya (nurse) – grey-blue → tired but honest.
Guess legend so far:
Yellow = lie / omission.
Dark green = fear / defence.
Beige = going through motions.
Red = anger.
Gold = care? (Mom, Sandra).
He stared at the words.
"Okay," he told the note quietly. "If my brain is going to be weird, we'll at least make it organized."
His phone buzzed.
A system notification from the calendar app: BOARD EMERGENCY SESSION – ENDED. As if he needed a reminder.
He closed the note, downed the last of the coffee, and headed back toward his mother's room.
---
He knew something was wrong as soon as he reached the door.
It was open a crack. That wasn't unusual.
The color leaking out was.
Not gold, not silver, not Maya's grey-blue. Something else. Something thin and too-bright, like cheap yellow highlighter on transparent plastic.
He pushed the door open.
A nurse stood by the IV pole, her back half-turned to him. White uniform, hair tucked under a cap, surgical mask in place. The badge clipped to her chest read J. HARPER, RN.
She held a syringe upright, tapping it with her finger to chase out the last bubbles. The IV line from the pump to his mother's hand had a port halfway, and the port was open.
"Excuse me," Asher said. "What are you doing?"
She jumped a little, then turned.
"Mr. Hale," she said. Her eyes crinkled in what might have been a smile behind the mask. "I'm just giving your mother her new medication. Dr. Wade updated the protocol."
Her voice was smooth. Professional. Reassuring.
Her color flickered.
Up close, Asher's brain painted her in layers: a neutral pale grey underneath, overlaid with streaks of yellow and a faint smear of dull red around the edges.
Lie. Irritation. Something sharp.
Maya's warning replayed in his head: No medication changes until the neurologist signs off. If anyone tells you something different, press the call button.
His thumb twitched toward the panel on the wall.
"What medication?" he asked, forcing his voice to stay casual. "Dr. Wade said they weren't changing anything until he'd seen the last scan."
Her eyes narrowed just a fraction.
"It's just a mild sedative and an adjunct to protect her brain," she said. "Completely standard in cases like this. The scan results moved things along faster than expected."
More yellow.
More red.
His heart thudded.
"Funny," he said. "Because Maya was here ten minutes ago and said the opposite."
Jenna—if that was her real name—tilted her head.
"Protocols can change quickly," she said. "You know how hospitals are. Very dynamic."
He took a step closer.
The syringe was already connected to the port. One push and whatever was in it would be in his mother's veins.
His mother's face was slack, unaware. Her hand twitched once against the sheet.
"As soon as we're done here," the nurse said, "you can speak to Dr. Wade if you like. But we shouldn't delay this any longer."
She started to press the plunger.
Asher moved.
His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist.
"Don't," he said.
Her eyes snapped to his. Behind the mask, the lower half of her face tightened.
"Mr. Hale," she said, voice still soft but with an edge now. "You're interfering with a medical procedure. Let go."
"Then call Maya," he said through his teeth. "Or Dr. Wade. Or anyone whose name I recognize. Until then, that thing does not go into my mother."
He squeezed harder.
Her pulse beat under his fingers, too fast.
"Security will not like this," she said.
"Security can bring me coffee while they explain why you're here alone," he shot back.
Yellow flared, almost blinding in his head.
For a second, her polite mask slipped. Her eyes went flat.
"You're making this complicated," she said.
"Good," he said. "I like her alive."
Her free hand flashed toward the call panel.
Not to press the nurse button.
To hit the manual mute on the heart monitor.
He saw it in the corner of his eye. Saw the angle. Saw the intent.
Time snapped.
He let go of her wrist and went for the syringe instead, fingers wrapping around the barrel right above the port.
She twisted, fast. Way too fast for someone who just passed pills all day.
The needle jerked. A few milliliters of clear fluid splashed onto the sheet instead of into the line.
The monitor began to beep faster, not muted, because she'd missed the button.
Good.
"Nurse—" he started to yell, then stopped. "Help! I need help in here!"
His voice cracked on the last word.
She tried to shove him back with her shoulder. For a second, they were almost chest to chest, fighting over a piece of plastic and poison.
Up close, her color had turned into a churning mess: dirty yellow, angry red, slashes of something dark and empty at the center.
She kicked at his shin, hard.
Pain flared.
He didn't let go.
The syringe bent in his hand, plastic creaking ominously.
"Let go," she hissed.
The door burst open.
Maya rushed in, followed by another nurse and a burly orderly.
"Jenna, what the hell—" Maya started, then froze. "We don't have a Jenna on shift."
Everything happened at once.
The fake nurse shoved Asher hard, sending him stumbling against the bed. The syringe snapped, clear liquid spraying. The IV port hung open, but his mother's hand remained untouched.
The orderly lunged for the woman.
She ducked under his arm with practised ease, slipped around Maya, and bolted for the door.
"Hey!" Asher shouted.
Maya slammed her hand on the red CODE button by the bed.
Alarms screamed.
Footsteps pounded in the corridor as staff converged on the noise.
For a second, Asher thought they had her.
Then he saw a flash of white disappearing down the side hall toward the service elevators, a blur of movement slipping past two confused visitors.
"Stop her!" someone yelled.
Too late.
By the time hospital security arrived, breathless and annoyed, the fake nurse was gone.
The syringe lay in two pieces on the floor.
Asher realized he was shaking.
Maya snapped on gloves and clamped the IV port shut, barking orders.
"Get me a new line. Pull the pump log. I want to know exactly what was supposed to be running. Someone find Wade. Now."
The orderly recovered, cheeks red.
"I almost had her," he muttered.
"She was trained," Maya said shortly. "You were doing your job. Do it better next time."
She glanced at Asher.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
He looked down. His shin throbbed where she'd kicked him. His hands were dotted with droplets of clear fluid.
"I'm fine," he said, voice distant. "Is… is my mother okay?"
Maya checked the monitors.
"Her vitals are stable," she said. "Whatever was in that syringe, she didn't get much of it. If any. We'll draw blood and run tests."
"What was she trying to give her?" he asked.
"I don't know," Maya said. Her jaw was tight. Her color had shifted from grey-blue to a darker, angrier shade, with streaks of green. "But it wasn't authorized."
Dr. Wade arrived two minutes later, coat half-buttoned, tablet under his arm.
"What happened?" he demanded.
Maya gave him the quick version.
Wade picked up the broken syringe with the tips of his fingers, as if it might bite, and held it up to the light.
"No label," he said. "Of course."
He looked at Asher.
"You grabbed her hand?" he asked.
"Yeah," Asher said. "She said you'd changed the protocol. You didn't."
"No," Wade said. "I did not. And I don't make changes through unsupervised injections at the bedside."
His color was deep blue, touched with red fatigue but clean.
Asher's breath shook.
"So she was trying to kill her," he said.
"Or put her into a state where certain decisions could be made without argument," Wade said grimly. "Either way, not medicine."
He nodded once to Maya.
"Quarantine the line. Pull camera footage from the last thirty minutes. Lock the service elevators if they're not already locked. And get hospital security to start checking badges. I want to know whose name she stole."
He turned back to Asher.
"I'll need to report this," he said. "There will be formal questions. From hospital admin at least."
"Great," Asher said weakly. "I love formal questions."
Wade's expression softened, just a fraction.
"You did the right thing," he said. "If you hadn't been here—"
He didn't finish.
He didn't need to.
---
Hours later, the adrenaline was gone, replaced by a hollow ache and a thin, buzzing exhaustion.
Asher sat in the family room just off the ward. Someone had painted the walls a cheerful yellow that didn't help at all. A TV muttered in the corner about markets and elections; he ignored it.
He had a Styrofoam cup of tea cooling in his hands. His fingers had finally stopped shaking.
He opened his phone.
Colour Notes – 11/2 – Hospital now had more entries.
Fake nurse ("Jenna") – pale grey → then dirty yellow/red when lying, then dark center when cornered.
Said "new protocol," "completely standard," "we shouldn't delay this." All wrong.
Maya – grey-blue → went sharp dark green when she realized "we don't have a Jenna on shift."
Wade – deep blue, red fatigue, no yellow on "not authorized."
Conclusion: Yellow = lying. Red = angry or forcing. Dark center = something worse.
He stared at the screen.
"If I hadn't seen it," he told the phone softly, "she'd be dead or… whatever they wanted."
His thumb hovered, then he added:
Someone sent her. Someone knew exactly which room. This isn't random.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown ID.
Just like earlier.
He almost let it go to voicemail.
Instead, he pressed accept and raised it to his ear.
"Asher Hale," he said.
A man's voice slid down the line, smooth and amused.
"Mr. Hale," the man said. "You are having a very educational day."
Asher's skin prickled.
"You again," he said. "The observer."
"Good reflex," the man said. "Recognizing my silence."
"You called this morning a stress test," Asher said. "What do you call an attempted murder at my mother's bedside?"
"A second-round evaluation," the man said. "Different department. I had nothing to do with the woman in white. I merely watched how you handled her."
"You watched," Asher repeated. "From where? The vents?"
"From where I invest," the man said. "Certain cameras. Certain access points. Certain phones."
Asher's gaze flicked around the family room, as if he might spot a lens winking at him.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Information," the man said. "Patterns. Proof that you are either your mother's son or a waste of very expensive genetics."
Anger flared, hot and immediate.
"She almost died," he said. "She still might, if whatever was in that syringe did something you didn't anticipate."
"Not me," the man said. "I told you: observer. Others are less… restrained."
"You keep saying 'observer' like it makes you better," Asher snapped. "You knew something was going on. You could have warned us."
"I did," the man said mildly. "This morning. I told you not to assume everyone near her bed wanted her alive."
"That's not a warning," Asher said. "That's a fortune cookie."
"Yet you were alert," the man said. "You saw the lie. You acted. Others in your position might have trusted the badge. You didn't."
His tone didn't change. But in Asher's mind, the man's "color"—if he tried to imagine it—was a cold, metallic grey. Hard. Unmoved.
"You're enjoying this," Asher said slowly. "Like it's a game."
"Of course it's a game," the man said. "Everything at your mother's level is a game. Board moves, acquisitions, hostile takeovers, asset reallocation. You grew up in a house built on winning those games, even if you pretended not to look."
"I didn't grow up in her house," Asher said. "I grew up adjacent, at best."
"A technicality," the man said. "Blood is blood. The question is whether yours will be wasted on panic… or sharpened."
Silence hummed between them for a heartbeat.
"What do you want from me?" Asher asked again.
"Nothing. Yet," the man said. "I want to see if you continue to perform under pressure. If you learn to read your… colours, was it?"
Asher's stomach dropped.
"You're in my phone," he said.
"In many phones," the man said. "Yours is simply more interesting today. You started turning your little quirk into a tool. Taking notes. Building a legend. That's the first step toward being useful in some circles."
"I'm not joining any cults," Asher said. "Or companies. Or whatever you're selling."
"Not today," the man agreed. "You're still in shock. But people like you rarely stay on the fence. The world will push. So will my competitors. Eventually, you will have to choose whether you are:
"...a liability—something to be removed.
"Or an asset—something to be trained."
"And you?" Asher said. "What category are you in?"
"House," the man said. "The kind that always wins in the end."
The line clicked.
He was gone.
Asher stared at the phone.
He opened his note again and, hands still trembling a little, added:
Unknown caller – voice only. Cold grey. Keeps saying "observer."
Calls murder attempts "evaluations." Talks like not acting makes him neutral.
Knows about my colour notes. Probably inside systems.
New conclusion: I'm on more lists than I thought.
He swallowed.
Then he typed a message to Sandra:
There was a fake nurse. Tried to inject something into Mom's line.
I stopped her. She got away. Wade says it wasn't authorized.
Also: the observer called again. Knew way too much.
He hit send.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
I saw the footage, she wrote back. We'll talk in person. Don't leave the ward alone again. Drink water.
There was a pause, then a second message:
Good job.
He stared at the two words longer than he needed to.
Then he put the phone down, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes.
For the first time since morning, the swirling colours in his mind felt less like a curse and more like a very sharp knife he'd grabbed by the blade.
He was bleeding.
But he was still holding it.