The silence tightens.
“The man you treated recently,” Ivan adds lightly. “Internal injuries. Blunt force trauma. Significant hemorrhaging. He didn’t survive.”
Every internal alarm activates at once. That information isn’t public.
“I treat many patients,” I respond evenly, keeping my cool.
“Of course,” he says. “This one was frightened. He spoke to you.”
“You’re misinformed.”
Ivan doesn’t challenge the denial. He studies my face instead, his attention focused on my reaction rather than my words.
“Competence draws attention,” he remarks. “Especially when people trust you to keep what you hear to yourself.”
Leo remains still. That stillness steadies me more than being near him ever could. Ivan is sizing me up me, but he doesn’t get to determine what happens here.
Then Lila’s voice travels down the corridor.
“Rowan?”
She appears near the nurses’ station, scrub cap still on, and mask pulled down beneath her chin. Surprise breaks into delight when she sees Ivan standing there with flowers in hand.
“Ivan?” she exclaims.
His demeanor changes instantly. Warmth replaces scrutiny. Ease replaces intent so completely that I almost doubt the exchange that came before.
“I could not wait,” he replies, lifting the bouquet. “I wanted tonight to begin early.”
She laughs, unguarded and genuine, the sound filled with relief, exhaustion, and pleasure all at once. She accepts the flowers without hesitation.
Ivan turns back to me briefly. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Hale. You were very helpful.”
“You should speak to neurology,” I reply.
He smiles faintly. “I will.”
He steps away, guiding Lila toward the elevators without lingering, his hand hovering near her back in a gesture that appears protective without making contact.
Only after they turn the corner does Leo move, his attention returning to the corridor.
I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Ivan Malenko didn’t come here for just dinner. He came to see how much I would tell him and what I would keep to myself.
The corridor returns to its normal flow within seconds of the elevator swallowing Ivan and Lila. A transport cart rattles by, its plastic bins clicking against the metal frame. Someone at the desk murmurs a joke under their breath, and the answering laugh is tired but genuine. A monitor alarms once, twice, then goes quiet as a nurse resets the lead without even lifting her eyes from the chart. Charlotte Memorial doesn’t pause for discomfort. It absorbs it and turns it into background noise.
I stay there a moment longer than the situation requires, my eyes on the closed elevator doors. My hands are empty, but my body hasn’t released the exchange. It isn’t fear or panic. It’s the alertness that lingers when a moment ends too neatly, and part of me stays awake, waiting to see if it’s truly over.
I turn back toward the supply room. The overhead lights feel brighter in here, and the air is cooler. The antiseptic smell is stronger, too, or maybe I’m simply noticing it now because my mind wants something concrete to hold.
I set the dressings on the counter and align them with the other supplies, even though they’re already in place. I don’t need to straighten anything. My hands want something to do.
Ivan arrived during Lila’s surgery. He accessed the floor without any trouble. He framed his questions as concern for anelderly relative. He pivoted into a patient case he shouldn’t have known about. He withdrew the moment Lila entered the corridor, then wore charm as if it were the only face he’s ever owned.
I let my gaze move over the shelves, the orderly rows of gauze and saline and taped boxes of gloves. Everything here is named. Everything serves a purpose. That isn’t what unsettles me. What lingers is how precisely he steered the conversation, and how easily concern turned into inquiry, his attention fixed on what I might offer without noticing. The setting only made it easier. People expect hospitals to be neutral ground, a place where questions sound reasonable and answers come freely. Ivan understood that expectation and leaned on it.
I step back out into the corridor with the supplies in my arms, the gloves tucked between saline and tape. Leo remains down the hall, his posture relaxed enough to look ordinary. His attention stays outward, scanning movement patterns and body language. We don’t acknowledge each other directly, but the reassurance is still there.
Kiren’s world has many rules I don’t understand fully. This part I understand completely. Protection isn’t meant to feel dramatic. It’s meant to feel normal.
