Chapter 3 - Chapter Three

Kevin turned eighteen and took on the public role of an aide inside his own clinic, because showing up as a licensed doctor at that age would pull the wrong kind of attention, so the compromise was simple: he wore the scrubs, walked patients to rooms, handled charts, checked vitals when needed, carried paperwork between departments, and on the side acted as quiet security, his eyes always scanning for trouble and his private link feeding observations into the back system where his synth staff logged every anomaly, and to the public he was just another underpaid worker in a clean but unremarkable clinic, one more face in the crowd that made the place run, insignificant in the same way all aides are, and that was exactly how he wanted it. Most days were dull repetitions: showing a coughing man to exam three, escorting a limping woman to x-ray, watching a nervous parent settle their child in pediatrics, stepping into the pharmacy line to help calm a dispute about dosage, and filling out the stack of forms that made up half of any medical business, all of it quiet and steady and without any detail that would matter to anyone outside. The clinic's security team, who the public believed were contract guards but who were actually his own people, handled the rougher stuff—drunks at the door, clients who couldn't pay but refused to leave, or the occasional scout from a gang trying to map the place—and Kevin kept his routine simple enough that even repeat patients never thought of him twice, which was safety by invisibility. On one afternoon he was finishing a set of forms at the side desk when the ambulance bay doors banged open and a stretcher rolled in fast, pushed by two nurses with a paramedic rattling off stats, and a boy about his own age trailing behind them wide-eyed, trying to keep up until the stretcher hit the line where only staff were allowed; Kevin recognized him before the door shut—David, the kid from the waiting room months back—and he caught enough to know the woman on the stretcher was David's mother, critical, not stable. The emergency door shut before the boy could follow and two nurses blocked him with calm but firm hands, telling him his mother was in good hands, that the team was already working, that rushing in would only get in the way, and Kevin caught the nod from one nurse who called him over, "Aide, take the son, get him checked and logged," and Kevin did it without pause, touching David's arm and saying, "Come on, let's make sure you're not hurt," because that was the line you gave when the other option was letting panic spiral. He walked David down the hall, set him in an exam room, flagged another nurse to take vitals, and left the doctor a note summarizing the situation so they would know to give the kid more than just a quick once-over. David sat stiff on the bed while the nurse did her work, answering questions in clipped tones, admitting no injuries, and Kevin stayed just long enough to see he was in safe hands before moving back to his rounds, because his cover required it and because his synths already had instructions to prioritize keeping this case clean. Hours later David was still in the waiting lounge when the doctor came to speak to him, and Kevin passed close enough to hear without making it obvious, the words clear enough to carry: his mother would live but was in a coma, her condition stable but her recovery uncertain, no one could say when or if she would wake. Kevin saw the way David's face fell, not loud grief but the heavy silence of someone who had been carrying too much already, and the doctor went on with what they always said in these cases, that support was critical, that he should focus on his own stability while the clinic did what it could, and then offered something practical because sometimes that was the only way to keep a client from falling apart, pointing him toward the pamphlets and programs available for family support, telling him to ask at the front office if he needed work to help with bills, even mentioning that the clinic sometimes needed extra hands for simple runs like medicine delivery, jobs that didn't pay much but paid enough if you were desperate. David nodded like he was listening but Kevin had already seen the decision flash behind his eyes, not yet shaped but taking root, and he thought about how many kids in Night City ended up at that same crossroad, forced to pick up work too soon, forced to gamble survival on jobs they barely understood, and he kept walking because it wasn't his place to step closer, not yet. Later that evening David picked up one of the pamphlets from the rack by the office, the kind printed in bulk and ignored by most, this one about delivery shifts and how the clinic contracted runs through its own fleet to guarantee clients got meds safely, and Kevin watched from the camera room as David tucked it into his bag before leaving for the night, shoulders square like he had already chosen. To Kevin it was another data point, one more ripple in the city's noise, but part of him filed it differently because faces that returned often enough stopped being random, and though he didn't know it yet this was one of those threads that would keep weaving back, tying him to people he had tried to remain invisible to, the kind of coincidence he usually distrusted, the kind he told himself he would watch closer next time.