The morning sun cut through the blinds of the clinic lobby. Dr. Maya Khan unlocked the front door, bracing herself for another day of fighting off Dante Ricci’s acquisition offers.
She stopped dead. The floor was wet, but the air didn’t smell like disaster; it smelled of bleach and effort.
She walked into the records room. The pipe had been clamped shut with a makeshift tourniquet made of rubber tubing. The files were stacked high on dry tables, safe and pristine.
And there, curled up on a hard wooden bench in the corner, was Julian. He was shivering in his sleep, his clothes soaked and stained with rust, his hands raw and bleeding from the manual labor.
Maya stared at him. She realized then that the arrogant boy who had sold them out to Jaxson Vane was gone. In his place was a man who would ruin his hands to save her dream.
Quietly, so as not to wake him, Maya walked to the supply closet. She returned with a thick wool blanket and gently draped it over him. She lingered for a moment, her hand hovering over his shoulder–a silent truce in their cold war.