Assess: Infection, moderate severity, needs antibiotics.
Clean: Irrigation, debridement, proper bandaging.
Treat: Dr. Reeves writes the prescription after I consult with him.
Educate: Wound care instructions, signs of worsening infection, follow-up in three days.
My hands remember.
Three months of only touching my baby—changing diapers, giving bottles, wiping spit-up—and still, my hands remember how to heal.
"Thank you," the woman whispers when we're done. "I didn't know where else to go."
"That's why we're here," I tell her. "Come back in three days. Let me check that it's healing properly."
She leaves. Another patient arrives. Then another.
By lunch, I've treated seven people. Dr. Reeves has written four prescriptions under my consultation. We're operating exactly as planned—me doing the hands-on nursing work, him providing physician oversight, both of us serving people who need us.
I'm exhausted. I'm energized. I'm myself again.
Not just Santiago's mom. Not just Zane's partner. Nurse Lena Cruz.
Healer. Powerful.
The emergency call comes at 2 PM.
"Need you at the clubhouse." It's Joker, voice tight. "Medical emergency. Can't say more over the phone."
My stomach drops. "Is it Zane?"
"No. Just come. Fast."
I tell Dr. Reeves I have an emergency, promise to be back. He waves me off—"Go. Save lives. That's the job."
The drive to Iron Talons clubhouse takes ten minutes that feel like ten hours. Multiple bikes outside. Brothers standing around looking tense. Someone's hurt and they called me instead of 911, which means it's either club-related or complicated.
I grab my medical bag, head inside.
The main room is chaos—brothers clustered around someone on the floor, voices overlapping, tension thick enough to choke on.
Then I see who's on the floor.
Ghost.
The man who called me a pregnant bitch. Who sent me into premature labor at thirty-three weeks. Who challenged Zane's Presidency and lost. Who left the club three months ago and has been making trouble ever since.
He's gray. Sweating. Clutching his chest.
Heart attack.
Every instinct says save him. Every emotion says let him suffer.
I'm a healer. I don't get to choose.
"Move," I order, and brothers scatter.
I drop to my knees beside Ghost, already checking his pulse. Rapid, thready. Breathing labored. Classic cardiac distress symptoms.
