“But Rowan?” She touches my arm lightly. “If there are details I should actually know, anything beyond a vibe, you need to tell me. You get that, right?”
I meet her eyes, seeing the genuine concern there, the friendship that's survived years of my walls and her persistence. “I know. And if it becomes more than a vibe, I promise I'll tell you.”
She holds my gaze a moment longer, then nods and steps back, letting the conversation end. But I can see her mind working, processing, and filing away this exchange for later examination.
Leo watches from across the room as she walks away, his attention lingering on her before returning to the room.
“What?” I ask quietly, moving closer so we can speak without being overheard.
“Nothing,” he replies, his tone neutral. “Just noting patterns.”
So am I.
Later, when the floor finally quiets into the lull that comes before the late-night rush, I step into an empty workroom toreview a chart. The room is small and windowless, lit by the glow of the computer screen and a single overhead fluorescent that hums faintly. I pull up the patient file I need, my eyes skimming through vitals, notes, and timestamps, looking for the information I need to make my next decision.
I stop. There's an entry under my name that I don't recognize. A medication adjustment was logged at 14:12. I wasn't here at 14:12. I was in surgery. No access to a terminal. No reason to log into the system.
I scroll through the entry again, checking every detail. The user ID is mine. The timestamp is clear. The signature at the bottom is digitally authenticated.
My pulse ticks up, not dramatically, just enough to feel off. I check my schedule in another window, confirming what I already know. Surgery from 13:30 to 15:45. No gaps. No way I could have accessed this system during that window.
I flag IT and send a message through the internal system marked urgent. Ten minutes later, a tired technician appears in the doorway, tablet in hand, exhaustion written across his face after a long shift.
“System lag,” he tells me after pulling up the logs, his tone suggesting this happens often enough that he's stopped being surprised. “Happens sometimes when the servers get overloaded. Probably cached credentials from your last login getting timestamped wrong.”
“Probably,” I echo.
I don’t argue. I close the chart and add it to the growing list of things that don’t align. Because evidence doesn't disappear just because someone calls it a glitch. Patterns become visible once there’s enough information to compare.
On my break, I step outside into the cold night. The air hits my face like a slap, slicing through the fog of exhaustion and recycled hospital air. I sit on the low concrete wall near the ambulance bay, far enough from the entrance that I won't be immediately visible but close enough that I can get back quickly if needed.
I pull out my phone and check the notifications I've been ignoring. Three missed calls from my mother, all within the last two hours. I open the voicemail with a sense of resignation, knowing exactly what I'll hear.
Her voice fills my ear, warm and unmistakable, a sound that belongs to a different world than the one I currently inhabit.
“Rowan, sweetheart, I know you're busy. You're always busy.”She laughs softly, the sound filled with equal parts affection and exasperation.“But I wanted to remind you about Ethan's birthday dinner this weekend. I've already ordered the cake. Chocolate, because he pretends he doesn't care, but he absolutely does. You know how he gets about traditions. And I know it's been a while since we were all together, but I just… I just want my kids under one roof for one night. Is that too much to ask?”
The message ends on that note, not quite a question but not quite a statement either. I stare at the concrete beneath my feet, my throat tight. A few feet away, Leo leans against the edge ofthe ambulance bay, his posture loose, and gaze outward. He doesn’t crowd me. He just stays where he can see everything that approaches and everything that leaves.
Inside those walls, people are fighting to stay alive. Bleeding, broken, and desperately clinging to existence. Outside, in the world where my mother lives, the biggest concern is whether everyone will show up for birthday cake.
The contrast doesn't just strike me. It guts me. I think about how quickly everything has changed. How Kiren slid into the center of my world without permission or warning, altering the entire axis of my existence. How dangerous and reckless that is. How completely against every principle of self-preservation I've spent years building. And how inevitable it feels anyway.
I don't regret him. That realization scares me more than any of the threats that have followed me into this life.
When my shift finally ends, I change out of my scrubs in the locker room, moving through the routine on autopilot. Leo drives me back to the secured apartment in silence, his attention divided between the road and the mirrors, constantly checking our surroundings even though we both know surveillance is tighter than it's ever been.
The apartment is quiet when I enter. Warm and safe in a way that feels increasingly fragile.
Kiren is waiting in the living room, standing by the window overlooking the city. He turns when he hears me come in, his attention narrowing from whatever held it to me.
“Rowan.”
Just my name. Not a question. An acknowledgment.
I cross the room to him, my body moving before I've decided to close the distance. When I'm close enough to feel his warmth, I stop.
“I need to tell you about today,” I begin, and once I start, the words don’t stop.
