A silver, nondescript sedan rolled into a Hell's Kitchen neighborhood.
"Is this the place?" Frances, sitting on the front passenger seat, asked as she looked out of the window.
"Yes, Boss," Lucia, sitting in the driver's seat, answered.
The car stopped in front of a simple, rundown house that had seen better days. Frances and Lucia got out of the car and walked towards the door.
Lucia knocked three times, paused, then twice more. The pattern every local knew.
A small shutter in the door slid open. A pair of calm brown eyes studied them.
"I don't know your face," the voice, a female, behind the door said in a low, steady voice. "You bleeding?"
"Not yet," Frances answered, letting a faint smile touch her mouth. "But I'd like to talk to the doctor who makes sure that stays the case for a lot of people around here."
The shutter closed. Locks clicked—more than two. The door opened just enough for Frances and then Lucia to step through.
The front room had been gutted and turned into a waiting area: a worn-out sofa, a low table covered in old magazines, a children's play mat in one corner that looked recently used—a faint antiseptic scent cut through the city smell. Beyond an archway, Frances caught a glimpse of brighter lights, stainless steel, and the soft beep of monitors.
The woman stood in the middle of the room, wiping her hands on a clean towel. She was in her late twenties or early thirties, compact and strong-shouldered, with dark hair pinned up in a practical bun. Her white coat was slightly rumpled but spotless. No makeup, no jewelry except a simple silver ring on her right thumb—probably a tool for opening ampoules or something equally practical.
"You're not local," she said, not a question. "I've never seen you here before. And you're not limping, coughing, or clutching a gunshot wound. So this isn't medical. What do you want?"
Frances let the door shut behind her. She kept her hands visible and her posture relaxed.
"Straight to it. I like that, Dr. Carter." A single nod. "Frances." A tilt of her chin. "Lucia." She let it hang for a moment. "I run a new crew."
"I don't care," Dr. Carter said, peeling off her latex gloves. "If you're not a patient, you're trespassing." A gesture toward the door. "Leave."
Lucia's brows knit at the attitude. Frances only smiled. A slight motion of her hand stilled Lucia before she could speak. Then she crossed to the sofa and sat, one leg folding over the other, entirely at ease. Lucia moved to stand beside the sofa.
Dr. Carter said nothing, only rolling her eyes—like she'd seen this kind of arrogance a hundred times before. She exhaled sharply. Another pair of entitled idiots. She crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite Frances.
"We're new," Frances said, relaxed. "Just over a month in. We're growing fast, and we're careful." A dangerous smirk played on her lips. "We don't start wars we can't finish."
Her face turned serious. "People get hurt in fights."
She paused for a moment. "That's where you come in.
Dr. Carter's expression didn't change. "I treat whoever walks through that door. Kingpin's men. Owl's. Iron Lords. The 17th Street Boys. Independents. Vigilantes. Even cops—if they're smart enough to come off-duty and pay cash."
She paused for a beat. "No exceptions."
Her gaze stayed steady. "That's how this place stays open. That's how I stay alive."
Her gaze hardened slightly. "I'm not joining anyone."
Frances tilted her head, studying the doctor the way she studied a new territory before claiming it.
"I know your work, Dr. Carter." Frances's tone stayed easy. "Last week, you patched up one of the Lords' lieutenants after a knife fight. Two nights before that, you pulled three bullets out of a Seventeenth Street kid—couldn't have been more than seventeen."
A faint smile appeared on her face. "You take what they can pay. You don't ask questions. You don't call anyone."
She offered a slow, shallow nod of approval. "Respectable."
Her eyes held Carter's. "Dangerous—but respectable."
She leaned in, her voice dropping, quiet, but not threatening.
"Here's the problem," she said. "You're good. Maybe the best underground surgeon operating in this city right now."
Her eyes held Carter's. "But you're alone."
She paused for a beat. "One night, someone gets tired of waiting. Or a rival decides the other side shouldn't have you."
She tilted her head slightly. "They come through that door with something other than money."
"You've been lucky." Her voice stayed calm. "But luck runs out."
Dr. Carter's jaw tightened, but she didn't look away. "Three years," she said. "I've handled myself that long. I have rules. I have contingencies."
Her gaze stayed steady. "And I have friends in every crew who know losing this clinic hurts them more than it helps."
"Until the day it doesn't," Frances said softly. "Until the balance shifts—and someone decides making a point matters more than keeping you alive."
"I'm not here to threaten you, Doctor." She leaned further, moving into the doctor's personal space just enough to be felt. "I'm offering you a way out."
Dr. Carter scoffed. "A way out—or a leash you hold?"
"A leash?" Frances echoed, letting out a sharp but brief laugh. "You think your 'friends' don't already hold one?"
A faint smile lingered.
"Members from two rival crews hit your door within minutes of each other. Both armed. Both bleeding. Both are demanding that you let the other die."
She leaned back, eyes still on Carter.
"What do you do?"
Carter's jaw twitched for a moment. She didn't answer immediately. The pause was enough for Frances to know she'd hit a nerve.
"I handle it," she said. The steel in her voice held. "I've had guns to my head before. You're not describing a hypothetical; you're describing a Tuesday."
She gestured to the wall. "I point to the sign on the wall that says 'No Weapons,' and I tell them if anyone pulls a trigger, I stop stitching. They can bleed out on the floor together for all I care."
She leaned back, mirroring Frances's posture, her facial muscles relaxing. "Spite is a powerful motivator, Frances, but the fear of a sepsis-induced death is usually stronger."
She fixed Frances with a piercing look. "You're talking about 'a way out'. But in this city, that usually comes with a tax and a target on my back. What makes your offer any different?"
Dr. Carter's gaze hardened. "And what's your move when I say no?"
"You walk away?"
Her voice stayed even. "Or do I become an example?"
Frances held her gaze without hesitation. "If I wanted to make an example, Doctor… We wouldn't be having this conversation."
A smirk touched her lips. "I don't burn assets I can use."
Dr. Carter said nothing.
A knock sounded at the door. Then another, harder this time.
"Linda, open the door," a voice demanded from the other side. He either didn't know the pattern or didn't care about it.
"That's William," Linda said with a flat voice. "One of Fisk's. You both might want to stay out of sight."
Frances raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Don't read too much into it," the doctor said dismissively. "I just don't want any unnecessary drama in my clinic."
Frances smiled and rose. Without a word, she moved deeper inside. Lucia followed.
Linda waited until they were out of view. Then she stood and headed for the door.
She unlocked the door and pulled it open.
"Hey, Linda," William said with an easy smile. He opened the door completely and stepped in as if he belonged there, his two men trailing behind.
Linda shut the door and looked at him, already stretched across the sofa. She exhaled. "What do you want, William?"
William casually lifted his shirt, exposing the scar across his abdomen. "Just wanted you to take a look."
Despite feeling irritated, Linda didn't decline. She jerked her chin toward a bed.
William grinned as he got up and walked towards the bed. He took off his shirt and dropped onto the bed.
Linda pulled on a fresh pair of gloves.
"You don't need those," William said, smirking as his eyes dragged over her. "You can touch me directly."
Linda ignored his suggestion and walked towards him after putting on the gloves. As she touched the scar, he let his head fall back against the bed, his eyes closing as if he were savoring the contact.
"Any discomfort? Numbness? Pain when you breathe?" Linda asked, her fingers pressing firmly around the edge of the jagged scar tissue.
A grin split William's face as he opened his eyes, looking at her intently. "Yeah. A lot of discomfort right here," he said, thumping his fist against his chest, over his heart.
Linda didn't flinch. She didn't even look up. She kept her fingers on his abdomen. "If you're having chest pains, go to a cardiologist. I'm a trauma surgeon. Now, stop moving."
William stilled but didn't remove his eyes from her face. He let out a rough, barking laugh. "I'm kidding, Doc. Lighten up." His face settled then, the humor vanishing into a grimace as she pressed a specific spot. "But yeah... since you asked. It's pulling. Like there's a fishing line hooked to my guts and someone's tugging on it every time I twist."
"That 'fishing line' is adhesion," Linda advised with a professional tone. "You're feeling 'pulling' because your insides are sticking to each other. If you keep drinking that rotgut whiskey, your bowels will inflame and tangle. You'll stop being able to pass food. It's a slow, bloated death that involves a lot of vomiting and no easy fix. Drink water, cut back on red meat, eat soft foods, and pray those tangles don't tighten."
William huffed a laugh. "Don't worry, Linda. I'm built different."
Linda didn't look up; she'd heard the same thing from dozens of men who were now buried in Potter's Field.
"You're fine," Linda said finally. "The bullet wound's healed. Just a scar left. Follow the precautions, and you'll recover."
She peeled off the gloves and dropped them in the bin.
William pushed off the bed, not bothering with his shirt, and settled back onto the sofa—arms draped over the back, legs stretched out onto the table.
He flicked a glance at one of his men.
The man stepped forward, offering a fold of hundred-dollar bills. "Doctor. Your fees."
Linda took the money and slipped it into her coat without counting.
"If you are done, you can leave," Linda said dismissively.
William smiled. "What's the rush, Linda?" He nodded toward the chair across from him. "Sit. It's been a while."
Linda's brows knitted. She looked at William, then at his two lackeys. They didn't stand near her. One stood on the way to the door outside, and the other at the hallway, leaning against the frame.
Linda's gaze hardened as she looked back at William. Then, without another word, she sat in front of him.
"I had heard that when you patched up one of the Iron Lord's lieutenants last week, he tried to force you to join their gang," William stated casually.
"Good thing my boys were nearby," William said with a faint smile. "Iron Lords aren't exactly known for their patience. Might've gotten messy otherwise."
"Then I should thank you," Linda said with a flat voice. She looked alternately at the two men; they were the ones who had helped her at that time. Both nodded at her. However, she ignored the mocking smirk on their faces.
"No need for thanks," William said, waving it off generously. "If anything, I should be thanking you."
A faint grin appeared on his face. "Thought I was a goner, with a hole in my stomach."
"That's my job," Linda said matter-of-factly.
"I know." William's grin widened. "That's why I like you."
"Still," William said, his face showing mock sympathy. "I feel scared for you. How long can you stay neutral? What if something happened to you?"
He let the question sit in the air like a physical weight. His eyes didn't match the sympathy on his face; they were as calculating as a man conducting a business transaction.
A faint smile returned to his face. "Might be safer to pick a side."
"Is yours the safer side?" Linda said calmly. "And since when has Wilson Fisk ever had a shortage of doctors?"
"Of course, the Kingpin has no shortage of doctors," William accepted. He didn't seem offended; if anything, he sounded proud even to speak the name.
"You know," he said, changing the topic. "I was just recently promoted to a lieutenant half a year ago. Every lieutenant's personal crew has its own private doctor on retainer—someone who doesn't ask questions and doesn't keep records. I'm the only one left standing in the cold. The late joiner in the club, still carrying my own medical kit like a street soldier."
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "It's about prestige as much as it is about stitches. Shouldn't I have the best the Kitchen has to offer?"
"Do you want me to congratulate you?" Linda asked dismissively.
William's smile turned playful. "I won't mind if you do."
Then the humor died, replaced by the cold, hard stare of a man used to getting his way. "But that's not why I told you that. As a lieutenant in Kingpin's organization, I have access to more capital and influence than you've seen in a lifetime. Switching to my side means you never have to worry about rent, supplies, or safety again. There is no downside, Linda." His smile returned. "Only profit."
Linda didn't lean away; if anything, she matched his proximity, meeting his serious gaze with one of clinical detachment. "My answer is the same as I have given to every person who has asked the same question before you."
She paused, letting the silence of the clinic underscore her words.
"I am not interested," she said, her voice as cold and sterile as the room around them. "I prefer staying neutral."
William's smile faded. The men on either side of Linda stiffened, irritation flashing across their faces. They had expected a negotiation, a plea for more money, or a nervous "yes." They hadn't expected to be outright rejected.
William gestured with his eyes, and his men settled.
"Maybe that's the problem," William said, looking back at Linda. He didn't look angry; he looked disappointed. "Maybe you think I am like every other person who has offered you in. You've spent so much time looking at the grunts that you think the view is the same from the top."
"But you see, I am different from others," he said, his smile coming back. "While others are only capable of violence, I prefer only doing as much violence as needed and not more."
He leaned back. "Hell, I even let go of the scrawny kid who drove me here in his taxi when I was bleeding out. I gave him a little scare, sure, but I let him walk. Others in my place would've painted his dashboard with his brains."
While Linda and William were having their discussion, Frances and Lucia were listening from the inner room. Frances looked ready to jump out in case things went south to lend the doctor a helping hand and make the doctor owe her a favor.
But just as she heard the words "kid" and "taxi", she stilled. She suddenly thought of Kevin, but then dismissed the thought. There were too many taxi drivers with the same description in the city.
What were the odds that William was talking about the same person?
Instead, she focused on the conversation again.
Linda, on the other hand, was also having an internal debate. She knew William was different from the other gang members who had asked her to join their gang. She was only asked by other minor gangs, but never by someone from Kingpin's gang, especially one at the level of a lieutenant. Refusing them and refusing him were extremely different.
She had already seen the faint outline of guns on William's men's shirts. She knew if she remained stubborn, William wouldn't hesitate to order one of them to put a bullet in her head so that his rivals wouldn't have her.
She didn't want to join him, but at the same time, she couldn't refuse him. So, she decided the best option for now was to stall for as long as possible.
"I need some time to think," Linda answered, her voice steady.
"You should've said so earlier," William said, his posture relaxing instantly. He stood up, smoothing the front of his jacket. "Take all the time you need."
He paused, the warmth leaving his eyes for a final, sharp moment. "But I want to hear a positive response, Linda. I don't like being disappointed."
"Let's go, boys."
"Call me if any other difficult patients show up here," William said, handing her a card.
Linda expressionlessly took it and put it in her coat pocket without looking at it.
William offered a final, satisfied smirk before heading for the exit with his lackeys behind him.
Linda watched them enter their car and drive away; only then did she lock the door.
"You can come out now," she said, her shoulders finally dropping. "They're gone."
Frances emerged from the back room and reclaimed the sofa, slouching back with her arms spread across the cushions. Lucia followed, taking up her post at her side.
"Congratulations, Dr. Carter," Frances drawled, her voice dripping with mock sincerity. "You've clearly made an impression. Who knows? Maybe the new lieutenant will even dress you in a harem girl outfit and chain you to his throne once you're on the payroll."
Dr. Carter showed a disgusted face. She didn't bother replying; instead, she sat in front of Frances, looking relaxed.
Frances watched her, quietly impressed. Most people in Hell's Kitchen would be shaking after a visit from Fisk's inner circle, but Linda Carter's pulse didn't even seem to have spiked.
But there was no denying that the encounter had left its mark. Frances had come here expecting to play a long, patient game of introductions and subtle persuasion. She'd planned to plant a seed and wait for it to grow.
She hadn't expected a Fisk lieutenant to walk in and do the hard work for her.
He hadn't just threatened the doctor; he'd destroyed her illusion of safety. And in Hell's Kitchen, when the floor drops out from under you, you reach for the first hand offered. Frances smiled inwardly. Perfect opportunities like this didn't come twice, and she wasn't about to let this one slip through her fingers.
"What would you do now?" Frances asked casually. "You aren't delusional enough to think that you can stall him forever, right?"
Carter didn't answer. She looked away.
"Or are you thinking those vigilantes will help you?" Frances continued. "They aren't your babysitters. They might save you once, maybe twice. But what about the third time? What happens when a new William walks through that door?"
Carter still didn't answer. But her clenched fists showed she was anything but calm.
"No. Deep down, you've always known that on the path you're walking, you eventually have to pick a side."
"You don't know me," Carter snapped. "You don't know what I believe or why I do this. I treat everyone because the moment I pick a side, I stop being a doctor and start being a tool. I've seen what happens to tools when their owners decide they're no longer useful."
"If you don't want to be a disposable tool, then become an invaluable asset," Frances said simply.
Dr. Carter stilled. She looked shaken, the clinical mask finally slipping to reveal the exhaustion underneath.
Frances continued, "William will treat you like a trophy. Anyone else will treat you like a tool, as you said. But I will treat you like an asset. One path ends with you in a cage. The other ends with being in power and having enough freedom to make some decisions. You will have resources, safety, and enough freedom."
The doctor didn't say anything. She looked away again. She took out the black matte card from her coat pocket and looked at it in silence.
Frances looked at Dr. Carter. She knew that the time was right to use her secret weapon.
Frances spoke again, but this time there was an inaudible hum in her voice.
"I am a gang leader, yes. But since I have decided to play this game, I intend to win it. William wants to own you. I want to utilize you. Join me, and you're protected. Stay neutral, and you're just a target waiting for a better marksman."
Dr. Carter felt as if Frances's voice was resonating with her core.
"We are the same, doctor. We both deal in survival. We both know that in this city, you're either the one holding the knife or the one getting stitched up. Don't lie to yourself anymore."
Dr. Carter felt as if Frances's words were hammering at her heart and brain. Her eyes looked unfocused.
Frances leaned in and ended with a whisper that seemed to echo in the marrow of Linda's bones: "You belong on the winning side, Linda."
Frances didn't speak anymore. Linda looked deep in thought with her head down.
Finally, Linda looked back at Frances. Clarity had returned to her eyes.
"My answer is…"
*********************
Zephyra Abyss
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