Chapter 3
"So," the kid said from the driver's seat, casual in a way that didn't match the dented glass between them.
"You gonna tell us why people keep trying to put you on the ground?"
Christian watched the street slide past. Storefronts. Traffic lights. A city pretending it had rules.
"I noticed things," he said.
The words felt smaller than what they carried. That was fine.
---
The image stayed with him later, uninvited.
Not the car.
The screen.
He leaned forward over the monitor, hands braced on the counter, eyes narrowing at the scan in front of him.
Why?
The fracture line wasn't clean enough to justify it. The compression wasn't acute. There was wear, yes — but the slow kind. The kind that came from years, not accidents.
Lately, the question had been coming up more often.
Why this patient?
Why now?
He scrolled.
Another case. Another booking. Another surgery scheduled weeks out when weeks were the one thing the body could still use.
"Doctor."
The voice pulled him back.
He blinked once.
"The pager," the nurse said, tapping the plastic clipped to his coat.
"Yeah," Christian said. "I saw it."
He didn't reach for it.
---
The lounge smelled like burnt coffee and disinfectant. Two surgeons sat half-slouched in chairs, trading complaints that didn't matter. Someone laughed. Someone didn't.
"…just saying," one of them added, lowering his voice, "too many denials from one doctor and insurance starts asking questions."
It wasn't aimed at Christian. It didn't need to be.
A clerk appeared at the doorway. "Excuse me, doctor. There's a man waiting for you in the lobby. Short interview. Just a comment."
Christian shook his head. "Not today."
The clerk nodded and left.
---
The corridor felt different.
Not loud. Not tense.
Just… quiet.
People walked with purpose. Conversations cut off when he passed. No one lingered. No one joked.
Ahead of him, a man in a light silver-gray suit moved the opposite direction. Clean cut. Measured pace.
Half a step behind him walked another man — taller, broader, black suit, dark glasses. They didn't look around. They didn't need to.
They passed Christian without a word.
The moment lasted less than a second.
It stayed anyway.
---
"Cancel the surgery."
The nurse froze.
Christian stood at the foot of the bed, chart open, voice steady.
"She needs physical therapy," he said. "Three months. Minimum."
He flipped the page and tapped twice. "These too."
The nurse hesitated. "Doctor… some of the payments for these were already transferred. Insurance cleared them."
Christian lowered his eyes.
"I see."
He rested his hand against the doorframe — just long enough to feel the weight settle — then straightened.
"Start the refund paperwork," he said. "We'll correct it."
He turned and walked out before the nurse could answer.
—
The secretary entered the executive wing without knocking.
She stopped outside the largest office and straightened her posture.
"Director .. governor Rinaldi is here."