NICK
The drive to my parents' house was a slow, quiet nightmare.
It was Friday night, seven o'clock, and the traffic leaving the city center was bumper-to-bumper.
I sat behind the wheel of my car, my fingers drumming a rhythmic, restless beat against the leather cover, staring at the long line of red taillights stretching ahead of me.
The radio was playing some soft classical piano piece, something my mother always liked but I wasn't really listening.
I was operating on pure autopilot, my body exhausted, my brain running on empty.
It had been a brutal week. Sixty hours at the hospital, endless rounds, surgical consults, and three high-stakes committee meetings for the new government medical center project with XUM.
By all normal standards, I should have been focused on my career, thinking about patient charts or project timelines.
Instead, for five straight days, my head had been completely hijacked by a thin, dark-haired nuisance in a mesh shirt.
Cyan.
