The hospital was unusually frantic for a Tuesday afternoon. I was mid-charting a patient's recovery when a nurse tapped on my door, looking slightly intimidated.
"Dr. Rose? There's a woman here to see you. She says she's from the NYPD."
I felt a cold prickle of anxiety. My mind immediately flashed to Oliver—to his strange behavior this morning and his sudden obsession with my safety. I smoothed my lab coat and took a breath. "Send her in."
The woman who walked in didn't look like the police officers I was used to. She was young, maybe in her early thirties, with sharp, bird-like features and hair pulled back so tight it looked painful. She wore a grey suit that looked lived-in, and her eyes—vibrant and restless—scanned my office like she was looking for a hidden exit.
"Dr. Emily Rose?" she asked, her voice like a quick succession of gunshots. She didn't wait for an answer before flashing a badge. "Detective Sarah Vance, 13th Precinct."
"How can I help you, Detective?" I asked, keeping my voice professional.
Vance didn't sit. She walked over to my window, looking out at the city. "Nice view. Expensive. I hear the Aegis Medical Wing is the pride of the Thompson family."
"We do our best for the community," I replied.
"I'm sure you do." She turned around suddenly, leaning her palms on my desk. "I'm here about the 'Hotdog' incident at the Pier 19 warehouse last night. Or rather, the history of this... vigilante."
My heart skipped. "I've seen the news, Detective. But I'm a surgeon. I don't see how that concerns me."
"Doesn't it?" Vance smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I've spent the last six hours looking at medical records of patients treated for 'accidental' injuries during the months this Hotdog was active last year. Funny thing is, a lot of the high-level trauma cases—broken ribs from spinning kicks, shattered jaws—seem to have been processed right here. Under your supervision."
"We treat everyone who comes through those doors, Detective. We don't ask if they were kicked by a vigilante or if they fell off a bike."
Vance pulled a photo from her jacket and slid it across my desk. It wasn't a picture of a criminal. It was a picture of the note left at the scene. HOTDOG WAS HERE.
"Five months of silence," Vance whispered. "And then he comes back the same week Oliver Thompson takes over the city's largest logistics firm. A firm that, coincidentally, was being used by the same smugglers Hotdog just took down."
She leaned closer, her eyes searching mine. "You're close to him, aren't you? To Oliver. Tell me... does Oliver Thompson ever come home with bruises he can't explain? Does he have 'training accidents' that look a lot like combat?"
"Detective, that's enough," a voice interrupted from the doorway.
I looked up, relieved. It was Ethan. He was leaning against the frame, his arms crossed. His face was a mask of indifference, but I saw the way his fingers twitched near his holster.
"Detective Vance," Ethan said, his voice smooth but authoritative. "I thought we agreed that any questioning involving the Thompson staff would go through my department."
Vance straightened up, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Ethan. "Detective Ethan. I didn't realize you were already on the scene. I thought you were busy with the precinct's backlog."
"I'm the official liaison for the Aegis accounts, Vance. You know that," Ethan said, walking into the room. He stood beside my chair, a silent, towering presence. "And Dr. Rose is a busy woman. If you have questions about the Thompson family, you should bring them to the proper channels. Not harass a doctor in her clinic."
The tension between the two was thick. Vance looked at Ethan, then back at me. She picked up her photo and tucked it away.
"You're very protective of this family, Ethan," Vance said, her voice dripping with suspicion. "I hope your badge doesn't get blinded by all this Thompson gold."
"I value justice, Vance. Just like you," Ethan replied coldly.
"We'll see about that." Vance turned to me, her expression unreadable. "Thank you for your time, Doctor. I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot of each other."
She walked out, her heels clicking aggressively on the linoleum.
The silence she left behind was heavy. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Ethan didn't move. He kept his eyes on the door until she was long gone.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low and suddenly much softer.
"I'm fine," I said, looking up at him. "Is she always like that?"
"She's a hunter, Emily. And right now, she's smelled blood." Ethan looked down at me, and for a second, I saw genuine worry in his eyes. It wasn't just the worry of a cop; it was personal. "Oliver needs to be extremely careful."
"Ethan... what is really going on?" I asked softly.
Ethan reached out as if to touch my shoulder, then pulled his hand back at the last second, gripping his own wrist instead. "The world is getting complicated again. I'll walk you to your car. I don't want you alone while Vance is sniffing around."
As we walked down the hall, I noticed Ethan was constantly checking our reflections in the glass doors, watching the corners. I liked him—he was steady and reliable. But I also felt like I was caught between two storms: Oliver's secrets and Ethan's silence. And both of them were trying to protect me from a fire they hadn't told me about yet.