Zahra nods, but the fear doesn’t fully leave her eyes. “Be careful,” she exhales.
“I always am,” I reply automatically.
She cocks a brow and a half smirk, giving me a look that says, “We both know that’s bullshit.”
The rest of my shift passes in a blur of routine and muscle memory. I stitch. I prescribe. I reassure patients who look atme like I might be the last kindness they hear today. One crisis layered over another, the constant hum of barely managed catastrophe, with my nerves still buzzing.
By the time my shift ends, my head aches with exhaustion and suppressed adrenaline. The sun has dipped low, casting the hospital in long, crooked shadows that make it appear even more fragile than it is. I sign out, tuck my stethoscope into my bag, and board the employee shuttle with the rest of the clocked-out staff.
The bus rattles as it pulls away, windows open to the evening air. It smells like dust, sweat, and fuel. I rest my forehead briefly against the glass as the city slides past in streaks of amber and shadow, thinking about Maryam and the mess I have gotten myself into. It’s no longer just her husband—and his goons—trying to find her. Someone else is interested in where she disappeared to.
My housing complex comes into view. It’s an older utilitarian building that looks like it was designed to meet the bare minimum of standards and not a fraction more. It’s surrounded by—laughable—security. The guard who works the main gate most days spends more time napping than he does actually watching for threats.
I step off the shuttle and head inside, my sneakers squeaking loudly along the tile floor in the narrow corridor. After pulling my keys from my bag, I slip them into the lock before noticing the folded piece of paper taped to my door. I glance up and down the hallway, finding it empty, as I reach out and pluck the note from the door. My heart slams against the back of my ribs, fast and furious again, as I unfold it.
You will tell us where she is, eventually.
My stomach drops, and I stare at the paper like it might lunge at me.
They know where I live.
The realization settles, cold and heavy, in my chest. It’s not just that they know where to find me—though that is terrifying—but that they walked past security, through this building, and managed to leave a note without anyone stopping them.
What’s to stop them from going inside next time? While I’m here…
I crumple the paper, fury and fear twisting until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. After shoving the paper wad into my pocket, I unlock the door and step inside. I bolt the door behind me and stand against it in silence, listening. The only sound greeting me is the quiet hum of the air conditioning unit beneath the window.
My apartment is small, tiny really. It is barely more than a studio. Actually, barring the kitchenette that fits exactly one person at a time, it reminds me a lot of the dormitory I lived in during residency. A narrow twin bed is pressed against one wall, and across from it is a desk scarred with scratches and a matching chair that wobbles no matter how carefully you sit in it.
I cross the space in a few quick steps. After popping the lid on the trash can, I drop the crumpled note into it and shove it beneath an empty street food container and disposable coffee cups.Out of sight…It might not be out of mind, butat least it won’t be staring at me when I open the trash again. With a sigh, I let the lid fall shut.
Peeling off my scrub top as I walk, I pause by the bed to flip on the small speaker. On my phone, I click on my Jessie Murph playlist, and the familiar music fills the space. I keep the volume low enough not to draw the attention of my neighbors, but just loud enough to give my thoughts something else to latch onto.
The shower sputters to life as I shimmy out of my pants. I let them fall to the floor, adding my bra and panties to the small pile I will deal with later. I pad barefoot into the shower, the cool tiles biting at the bottoms of my overheated feet. Under the spray, I close my eyes as the warming water cascades over me. It washes away the antiseptic scent that follows me home from work, but does nothing to rid me of the note nor the men who think I owe them my obedience.
After pouring a generous amount of lilac-scented soap onto my sponge, I scrub my skin hard, magically trying to scour the fear out of my me. The soap trails over my skin and swirls down the drain, but the fallout of my decision doesn’t follow it. Tilting my head back, the water hammers against my face.You did the right thing.Even if this world I’m living in disagrees, I know I did the right thing. I upheld my oath. I saved a woman and her child.
I did the right fucking thing…
I stand beneath the water until it runs lukewarm and my fingers are wrinkled. When I finally shut off the shower, my muscles have loosened slightly, and exhaustion has startedto seep in. I dry off slowly and wrap myself in a thin off-white towel before leaning against the sink. After wiping my hand through the condensation on the mirror, I stare at my reflection. I look tired. Older than I feel. They haven’t broken me yet. And I don’t intend to let them.
Cute little Dr. Blake Hart keeps her routine airtight. Hospital. Shuttle. Apartment. Repeat. No detours. No social stops. No late-night errands. Work and home. Every detail of her life stripped down to function, telling me a lot without needing to delve deeper. It’s the kind of schedule that says,I don’t have room for mistakes or distractions.
I have followed her for the past three days, watching the perimeter of her building at night, and observing who comes and goes from the hospital each day. For three days, I’ve waited to get inside her apartment. Not because I’m patient, but because impatience gets people caught.
The sun is just starting to dip behind the mountains, and the heat is bleeding out of the concrete in slow, shimmering waves. From a borrowed sedan parked just beyond the security gate, I watch the night unfold like clockwork. The gate rises, and the employee shuttle pulls up to her building.
“There,” I share through the comms, slumping in my seat and adjusting my ball cap lower over my eyes, whenDr. Hart exits the building. She’s carrying a large tote bag slung cross-body, and her shoulders are slightly hunched, braced for impact. She pauses for half a second at the curb, scanning the street—not obviously, but enough that I catch it as she glances left, right, and down the street. Something about the way she carries herself and always seems to be looking for a threat puts me on edge.
“Visual confirmed.” Hawk’s voice crackles through my ear. Hawk has been running perimeter on her residence the past couple of days, with Damon and Gunnar rotating relief between the two of us. Tonight, Hawk is going to tail her to the hospital so I can run a little recon.
She climbs onto the shuttle bus, walks to the rear, and takes a window seat. The doors hiss shut, and the diesel engine purrs.
“Bus is rolling,” Hawk confirms. “You’re clear. And we’re out.”
I don’t waste time. After slipping out of the sedan, I cross the street at a casual pace. The checkpoint is exactly what I am expecting: one disinterested security guard, his attention focused entirely on the glowing phone in his hand. I flash a smile and nod like I belong as I walk past him.Not that he even remotely gives a shit. That’s it. That’s all it takes to breach her building.
“Security is a joke,” I grumble, making my way up to the building.
