Mid-afternoon, Lila corners me near the supply cart.
“You look like you’re running on fumes,” she observes, studying my face.
“I’m fine,” I reply automatically.
She leans closer, lowering her voice. “You’re not blinking enough.”
I almost laugh at that.
“Long day,” I offer.
Her eyes narrow slightly. She knows me too well. “If something’s wrong?—”
“It’s not,” I cut in gently. “Just adjusting.”
She hesitates, then nods slowly. “Okay. But if you start spiraling, I’m intervening.”
“Noted.”
She squeezes my arm and moves on. I watch her go as a small, unwelcome thought creeps in.
Internal credentials. High-level access. Six or seven people.
I force the thought away before it takes shape. I won’t start suspecting everyone. That’s how paranoia wins.
By the time my shift ends, exhaustion pushes against my temples. Not the physical kind. The mental strain of constant scanning.
The locker room is quiet except for the dull echo of a door closing down the row. Lockers line the walls in narrow columns, their metal surfaces scuffed and dented from years of use. A forgotten sweatshirt hangs half out of one open door. Someone’s spare sneakers sit tucked neatly beneath the bench, the laces looped together. The room feels paused, as if it’s waiting for the next shift to spill into it.
I set my bag on the bench and sit down slowly. My hands tremble once, briefly, before going still. I stare at my reflection in the narrow mirror bolted to the locker door. Storm-gray eyes. Jaw set. Mouth neutral. I look composed, functional, alive.
Ethan’s attack was direct, physical, and impossible to ignore. Today wasn’t like that. Today required planning. Access. Someone who knew how the hospital operates and how I fit inside it. That’s what rattles me. Access doesn’t happen at a distance. It happens from somewhere close. Closer than I thought.
I stand slowly and change out of my scrubs, folding them neatly. I slide into my coat and gather my bag. When I push through the hospital’s side exit, the cold air cuts against my face. The sky is deep indigo, streaked faintly with the last remnants of sunset near the horizon.
Leo stands near the curb, one hand tucked loosely into hisjacket pocket, the other resting against the open passenger door. He scans the parking lot before nodding once.
Clear.
I slide into the car and close the door. The interior smells faintly of new leather. We pull away from the curb. For several blocks, neither of us speaks. City lights blur past the window. Restaurants glow warm against the dark. A couple crosses the street holding hands. Traffic flows in steady streams.
“You told him?” I ask finally.
“Yes,” Leo responds at once.
Of course he did.
“What did he say?”
A brief pause. “He’s not pleased.”
That earns a small, humorless exhale from me. “That’s diplomatic.”
Leo’s fingers flex once against the steering wheel before going still. “He recognized the strategy.”
“So do I.”
“They escalated without escalating,” Leo continues quietly. “Testing limits.”
