Chapter 1 - The Touch of Steel
Clara’s fingers hovered over the oxygen mask. Under the harsh, sterile hum of the trauma bay, the stranger’s gray eyes held her with an intensity that seemed entirely decoupled from the fact that he was actively bleeding out onto Bed Four.
“Clara,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the beep of the cardiac monitor. “My name is Clara.”
The stranger’s lips parted slightly, but before he could speak, Dr. Arthur Hemlock shoved Clara aside. His shoulder slammed into hers, sending her stumbling against the crash cart.
“Get out of the way, Jenkins!” Hemlock hissed, his face flushed with a mixture of adrenaline and irritation. “I don't pay you to socialize with the street trash Leo and his circus brought in. Forceps. Now!”
Clara swallowed the lump of humiliation in her throat. She quickly grabbed the sterile forceps, but as she handed them over, her fingers brushed Hemlock’s. He snarled, snatching the instrument with such force that it scraped against her glove.
“You’re clumsy, Jenkins. Clumsy and slow. If this patient dies because of your incompetence, I’ll personally ensure the nursing board strips your license before sunrise.”
The large man, Leo, shifted his weight. His hand drifted back toward the inside of his wet suit jacket. The air in the room grew instantly colder.
“Let him work,” the man on the gurney commanded, his voice miraculously steady despite the blood bubbling at his chest. His eyes never left Clara. He saw the way she shrunk under Hemlock’s abuse. He saw the faint, purple bruise on her wrist from where Hemlock had grabbed her during a shift three nights ago.
Hemlock began the chest tube insertion. He worked with brutal efficiency, but his arrogance made him careless. He did not administer local anesthesia, choosing instead to push the trocar through the chest wall with raw force.
The man on the gurney did not scream. He only clenched his jaw, a single vein pulsing violently at his temple.
“Suction, Jenkins!” Hemlock barked.
Clara moved to position the tube, but she was a millisecond too slow for Hemlock’s liking. In a flash of petulant rage, Hemlock reached out, grabbed Clara’s braided ponytail in his fist, and violently yanked her backward.
The force of the pull tore several hairs from her scalp. Clara gasped, her head jerking back, tears of sudden, sharp pain springing to her eyes. She nearly fell, catching herself on the edge of the metal cart.
The trauma bay went dead silent.
Even the residents froze, their eyes wide with terror. Abuse from Hemlock was common, but physical violence in front of witnesses was a boundary he had never crossed so blatantly.
Hemlock didn’t care. He looked at Clara with pure disgust. “Keep up, or get out of my ER.”
Clara stood frozen, her scalp burning, her dignity shattered on the blood-stained linoleum. She expected the residents to say something. She expected security to step in. But everyone looked away. In Mercy Harbor, Hemlock was untouchable.
Then, a low, raspy voice broke the silence.
“What...” the man on the gurney breathed, his gray eyes locking onto Hemlock’s face like a target scope, “...is the doctor’s name?”
Leo stepped forward, his face carved of granite. “Arthur Hemlock, boss. Chief of Trauma.”
The wounded man closed his eyes for a brief second, letting out a slow, measured breath. When he opened them again, the pain seemed to have vanished, replaced by a cold, terrifying clarity.
“Arthur Hemlock,” the man murmured, as if committing a death warrant to memory. He then looked at Clara. “Finish the suction, Clara. You are doing a wonderful job.”
May you like
Unbeknownst to Hemlock, the man on Bed Four was not just another high-paying gunshot victim. He was Julian Vance—the reclusive, legendary head of the Vance Syndicate, a man who controlled the city’s docks, its real estate, and the very board of directors that funded Mercy Harbor Medical Center.
And Julian Vance had just decided who would lose everything.
