The fluorescent lights of the Sterling-Khan Community Clinic buzzed overhead. Dr. Julian Sterling stood at the reception desk, but he wasn’t wearing his Italian suits or his arrogance. He wore a faded hoodie, his face gaunt from weeks in rehab.
“I need a job, Maya,” Julian said, his voice rasping. “I’m clean. I can handle triage. I can do consults.”
Dr. Maya Khan didn’t look up from her paperwork. “You lost your medical license, Julian. The board suspended you for stealing hospital narcotics. You can’t touch patients.”
“Then let me do admin,” Julian pleaded. “Let me help you with the books. I know how to run a hospital.”
“I don’t trust you with the money, either,” Maya said, finally meeting his eyes. The pain in her gaze was worse than her anger. “You sold us out to Jaxson Vane once. I won’t let you do it again.”
Julian turned to leave, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his “Penitent” arc.
“Wait,” Maya called out. She pointed to a utility closet. “The night janitor quit yesterday. It pays minimum wage. You scrub the floors, you empty the biohazard bins, and you stay invisible.”
Julian looked at the closet, then at the clinic he had sacrificed his inheritance to build. He swallowed his pride.
“I’ll take it,” Julian said quietly. He walked to the closet and picked up a mop.