In another part of the hospital, two women sat at a corner table, their silhouettes sharp against the lone window's reflection, where the city's distant lights winked like conspirators. Helena leaned over a stack of papers and a USB drive, her fingers trembling with the weight of what they held. Sophie sat opposite, her arms crossed, her face a mask of resolve tinged with disgust. They were plotting the downfall of Devon Aldridge , the hospital's golden god, whose genius in the OR masked a darker truth.
Helena's voice was a low hiss, barely louder than the coffee machine's gurgling death rattle. "It's all here, Sophie. Bank transfers, shell companies, invoices for procedures that never happened. He's been siphoning money for years, millions, funneled through offshore accounts." She tapped the USB drive, its matte black surface glinting under the flickering light.
