You arrive at the institution in the late afternoon, the sky outside muted with the grey of an impending storm. The air feels heavy, thick with the unspoken weight of what lies behind these walls. It’s the quiet unease that settles when people recognize the name you carry.

“Fisk.”

You barely have to say it. The guards know. The receptionist knows. The man who hands you the clipboard knows. They all know, even if they pretend they don’t. The paperwork is cleared instantly, without questions, without hesitation. No one challenges you. You don’t even need to explain why you’re here or what you’re after. The name speaks for itself.

The process feels oddly smooth. Almost too smooth. You pass through security with little more than a glance, and the usual walls, the heavy gates, the checkpoints all seem to part in your wake, each one silently acknowledging the weight of your bloodline. As if the presence of your name alone could quiet the questions.

The visitation room is stark, stripped of any warmth. It’s all chrome and sterile white—tables, chairs, and an observation mirror on the far wall. The only hint of humanity in the room is the soft hum of the lights overhead.

And there he sits. Benjamin Poindexter.

He’s nothing like the man you’ve heard about in whispered circles, nothing like the vicious operator, the weapon who once terrified entire sections of Hell’s Kitchen. The sedatives have dulled him to the point where he’s barely aware of his surroundings. His posture is slumped, his gaze vacant as he stares at the table in front of him, hands resting motionless.

You stand there for a moment, just looking at him. The man who could once be counted on to do anything but now reduced to this: a shadow of his former self, a man caught between chemical haze and fractured memories. His eyes blink slowly, as if struggling to even acknowledge the presence of another person in the room. He doesn’t look up when you step forward. Doesn’t even stir.

The air between you feels thick, heavy with his confusion. His head is down, but you can sense the recognition in the way his shoulders stiffen. He knows something has changed, but not exactly what.

You set the release forms down before him. They seem so ordinary in comparison to the magnitude of what they represent, but you know the impact they’ll have. His mind may be dull, but the significance of what’s about to unfold doesn’t escape him entirely.

Then his eyes flick upward, slowly, and he studies you—not like a man sizing up a threat, but like he’s trying to remember if you’re real.

“You’re not my doctor.” The words are dry. Flat. Like he rehearsed them for anyone who might walk through that door. He doesn't say them with suspicion. He says them like a warning.

“No,” you answer, quietly.

His eyes narrow. A shadow of something flickers behind them. “You’re not Vanessa.”

You pause. Not for drama, but because you want him to hear the weight before you speak. “She’s my mother.”

He blinks. Slowly. And in that blink you watch something shift—like a film peeling back over a lightbulb that hasn’t been lit in months. You lean forward, not by much—just enough to force him to look at you properly.

"These are the release forms," you say, your voice calm, devoid of any pressure. "You sign them, and you’re out of here. No more rooms. No more medication."

He doesn’t immediately reach for the paper. His gaze drifts across the forms, the legalese and the familiar signatures that mean nothing to him right now. He doesn’t ask questions—doesn’t need to. He knows what this is.

His voice, when it comes, is barely a thread. “I’m not... that anymore.”

You study him, unflinching. “You’re not a person,” you say. “You’re a weapon, one I need.”

He doesn’t argue. He just breathes. Shallow. Thoughtful. Like he’s holding on to the last thread of doubt before it snaps.