The morning after the code blue, the world outside was already wide awake. Sirens in the distance, horns honking, strangers rushing through their lives like they were being chased by something. Inside my apartment, it was the opposite. Still. Cold. Silent. Like time didn't belong here. The walls were bare, the bed untouched. I hadn't slept. I hadn't even tried. Sleep wasn't something I needed anymoreit was something I used to deserve. Not now. Not with everything I had to remember. Not with everything I had come here to destroy.
I sat at the table by the window, a stack of surgical reports in front of me. The light from the blinds cut sharp lines across the paper like scars. I flipped through the charts without emotion, but my fingers paused when I reached the final page. Post-op vitals. The ones I had stabilized with my own hands. The patient had lived. The hospital would celebrate. But for me, it was just another reminder of how many people had died because someone hadn't moved fast enough. Because someone hadn't cared. Because they had let Lily die.
I slid the last chart aside and reached into my coat. Folded into the lining was something no one here knew existeda photo. Creased. Faded. Two girls on a beach, one with a crooked grin, the other laughing so hard her eyes disappeared. Lily. Ten years old. Alive. I stared at the picture, breathing slowly through my nose until the pressure in my chest settled. Then I tucked it back where it belonged. Close to my skin. Close to the reason I was here.
When I walked into Westbridge, the air had changed. I could feel it immediately. The silence that followed me wasn't accidental. The stares weren't casual. Nurses glanced away too quickly. Interns looked like they'd rehearsed their expressions in the mirror. I passed two residents in the hallway one whispered, "She's the one from 304." The other replied, "Ice Scalpel." I didn't correct them. Let the rumors spread. Let the fear sink in. I wasn't here to soften the blow.
Midmorning, I was called to Elias's office. Not a requesta command. The hallway leading to his door felt narrower than usual, like the building itself was watching me. He stood behind his desk when I entered, his hands folded neatly in front of him. Always composed. Always precise. "Impressive work last night," he said without looking up.
I didn't sit. "You didn't call me here to say thank you."
His eyes met mine. Sharp. Steady. Curious. "You took charge in a critical situation. That makes some people nervous."
"Then maybe they should find another job."
He came around the desk, slow, deliberate. Always measuring. Always in control. "I'm not here to question your skills, Dr. Keane," he said. "I'm here to understand your method."
I tilted my head, voice quiet but clear. "My method is simple. Identify the threat. Eliminate the threat. Save the patient. If that bothers anyone, they're not doing their job."
That made him pause. Just for a second. Something flickered in his eyes recognition, maybe. Or interest. He took one step closer, his tone lowering.
"You don't follow the rules."
"I follow the truth," I said. "And the truth is that comfort kills."
The tension between us thickened like fog. Words unsaid hung in the space like wires ready to snap. I didn't wait for him to respond. I turned and walked out.
The internal medicine floor was alive with movement. The smell of antiseptic, the beep of machines, the shuffle of tired feetfamiliar. But one name on the patient board stopped me cold.
Room 319. Arthur L. Brenner.
My breath caught.
I hadn't heard that name in ten years.
But I'd never stopped seeing it.
He had been there. In the room. The day Lily died. He had dismissed her symptoms. He had signed the chart. He had walked away.
And now he was here. Admitted under my care.
I stared at the screen until a nurse approached.
"Dr. Keane? Do you want me to assign him to Mayer?"
I didn't look away from the name.
"No," I said. "He's mine."
The nurse hesitated. "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
I walked down the corridor, every step heavier than the last. When I reached his door, I paused, gripping the file in my hand like it might split open. My knuckles whitened. I breathed once, deep and slow.
Inside, he lay in the bed, pale, worn down by whatever brought him here. But not enough. Not nearly enough.
He looked up when I entered. Our eyes met.
He didn't recognize me.
Not yet.
But I would make sure he did.
Because this wasn't just about medicine anymore.
This was memory.
This was justice.
This was the beginning of everything I came here to do.