"You have questions." It's not a question. Richard's voice is smooth, confident. A man used to being right.
"Several." I keep my back straight, shoulders squared. "What exactly would I be treating?"
"Injuries that would raise questions at hospitals. Gunshot wounds. Knife injuries. Occasionally beatings." He says this like he's listing grocery items. "Nothing beyond your capabilities, I assure you."
"And if something is beyond my capabilities?"
One corner of his mouth lifts. "Then we'd seek alternative care. I'm not asking you to perform brain surgery, Ms. Young. Just basic trauma care with discretion."
I nod, trying to look unfazed. "And the legality?"
"Technically, you'd be practicing without a license." He leans forward slightly. "But then, technically, you're alreadycommitting tax fraud by not reporting all your... income from the stage."
My stomach drops. Not a threat, exactly. Just a reminder that I'm already compromised.
"The compensation is significant," he continues. "Five thousand per month as a retainer. Additional fees per treatment, depending on severity. All cash."
Sixty thousand a year, just on retainer. More than enough to cover tuition, loans and bills.
"Why me?" I ask, the most important question.
Richard studies me for a long moment. "You're intelligent. Discreet. Hungry. And you understand that sometimes survival requires... flexibility in one's principles."
He's not wrong. The Claire who started med school would have walked out already. But that Claire hadn't dealt with bills mounting. Hadn't stripped to pay for textbooks. Hadn't learned how quickly principles dissolve when reality hits.
"One condition," I say, surprising myself with my boldness. "I need guaranteed time for my studies. This can't interfere with my classes or exams."
Richard nods. "Acceptable. Most situations arise at night anyway."
I pick up the pen.
"You're making the right choice," Richard says as I hover over the signature line.
I almost laugh out loud.
The pen glides across the paper, my name in blue ink sealing whatever comes next. Richard takes the contract, tucking it into a folder without looking at it again.
"Welcome to the family, Claire." He extends his hand, and I shake it. His grip is firm, cool. "I believe your first patient is already waiting.
The back roomthey've set up looks nothing like a proper medical facility. It's a storage room hastily converted—metal shelving pushed aside, a sturdy table in the center, bright construction lights casting harsh shadows. But someone has supplied medical equipment. Good equipment. A proper suture kit. Antiseptics. Analgesics. Even a portable vital signs monitor.
The man on the table is sweating, pale. Latino, maybe mid-thirties, with a tattoo creeping up his neck. His right side is soaked with blood, a makeshift pressure bandage already saturated.
"Knife," he grunts when he sees me. "Caught me between the ribs."
I snap on gloves automatically, moving to his side. "How long ago?"
"Twenty minutes." This from Ian, who materializes at the door. His eyes track me as I cut away the man's shirt. "Miguel here had a disagreement with a business associate."
The wound is ugly—a deep slash about four inches long, angled upward between his ribs. But the location is fortunate; a few inches higher and I'd be dealing with a punctured lung.
"I need to clean and assess this," I say, already reaching for the antiseptic. My hands don't shake. Shouldn't I be more nervous? "It'll hurt."
Miguel laughs, a pained sound. "Not my first rodeo, girl."
I work methodically, cleaning, probing, assessing. The blade missed anything vital. It needs internal and external sutures, but it's manageable. As I work, I feel myself slip into a strange calm. This is what I'm meant to do—fix broken bodies. The circumstances are irrelevant.
"You've done this before," Richard observes from the doorway. I hadn't noticed him arrive.
