Then her posture tightens, her shoulders squaring as though bracing for impact.
“I treated a Russian man several weeks ago,” she begins.
My attention narrows, but I don’t interrupt.
“He was brought into my trauma bay with severe internal injuries,” she continues, her voice calm despite the tension beneath her words. “He was afraid.”
Her fingers curl lightly against the table, then ease.
“Not of dying,” she adds. “Of being found.”
I meet her gaze without wavering, absorbing the information she offers while my mind begins cataloging possibilities and connections.
“He believed someone was looking for him,” she continues. “Not hypothetically. Specifically. He kept repeating names I didn't recognize, warning me aboutbetrayal inside. I didn't understand what he meant then. I still don't.”
She pauses, her throat working as she swallows.
“He died believing he wasn't safe.”
The words are delivered without theatrics. She doesn’t dress them up or soften them. She states them plainly, as if in anexam room, even though I can see the effort it takes. The emotion is there, held tight beneath the surface, controlled but not absent.
“There was a note,” she adds after a moment, her voice dropping lower. “Left in my locker yesterday. No threat. No signature. Just enough to tell me I’d been noticed. That someone knew where I worked and how to reach me.”
Her eyes remain on her plate now, her voice calm but tighter than before.
“And since then,” she continues, “I've had the persistent sense that I’m being watched.”
My back teeth grind together, but I keep my expression composed.
“You're not surprised,” she observes, lifting her eyes to mine.
“I’m listening.”
“That feels worse,” she replies quietly.
“I won't lie to you,” I tell her, leaning forward slightly. “I don’t yet know how those events intersect. But I know they matter.”
She absorbs that, her breathing slowing as she processes my response. “I don't like not knowing whether I'm being paranoid or perceptive.”
“Those are rarely opposites.”
Her lips press together, frustration surfacing briefly before she suppresses it. “That doesn't help.”
“It wasn't meant to.”
She studies me for several seconds, her eyes searching my face for answers I'm not ready to give. “You don't reassure people, do you?”
“I don't fabricate safety.”
“And yet,” she continues, her voice softer now, almost vulnerable, “when I'm with you, the noise in my head eases. The constant analysis, the second-guessing, the fear that I'm overreacting or underreacting. It quiets.”
Her hand lifts partway across the table before stopping, hovering in the space between us.
“I don't trust that,” she admits. “Comfort that arrives without explanation feels dangerous.”
“I don't offer comfort,” I note, watching her closely. “I offer consistency.”
Her breath catches faintly, subtle but unmistakable.
