Chapter 7 - The Emergency Ward
The sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors of Oak Creek Memorial Hospital smelled of bleach, antiseptic, and unyielding despair.
I paced a mud-dry trench into the linoleum outside Trauma Bay 3, my hands still stained with Gwen's blood. Every second felt like an eternity, every beep of the monitors echoing through the wall sounding like a countdown to a tragedy I couldn't stop.
After what felt like centuries, Dr. Miller—a tired-looking oncologist with graying temples—pushed through the swinging double doors, peeling off a pair of blood-flecked latex gloves.
I lunged forward, grabbing his forearm. "How is she? Is she stable?"
Dr. Miller looked at me with solemn, heavy eyes. "She suffered a massive internal hemorrhage related to advanced-stage renal and hepatic complications from her primary malignancy. The tumor had metastasized months ago, Ethan. If she had received the targeted therapy and specialized scans when the symptoms first appeared, we could have managed it. But waiting five months without treatment..." He shook his head grimly. "She's in a medically induced coma right now. We had to perform an emergency surgical intervention to stop the internal bleeding. She is fighting for her life."
The words hit me like a physical blow, driving the air straight out of my lungs. I stumbled backward, my back hitting the pale green wall.
"Can I see her?" I choked out.
"Not yet," Dr. Miller said gently. "She's in the ICU. But Ethan... you need to prepare yourself. Her body is severely compromised. She was starved, exhausted, and her immune system was entirely shut down."
As the doctor walked away down the corridor, a cold, dark fury settled deep into my bones. The grief transformed into something sharp, crystalline, and lethal. My family hadn't just neglected her. They had tortured her slowly, day by day, while spending my blood money on luxury cars and silk robes.
May you like
I pulled out my phone, bypassed the hospital directory, and dialed a number I hadn't used since my final tour overseas.
"This is Sergeant Harper," I said when the line connected to a trusted military buddy turned private investigator. "I need you to pull every financial, medical, and legal file on Margaret and Paige Harper. And I need a locksmith who can clear an elite security safe before sunrise."
