He extended a business card with elegant, deliberate movements. The heavy card stock bore only a name—Adrian Calloway—and a phone number. No title, no company, no address. The minimalist design somehow conveyed more power than any elaborate credentials could have.
“I don't do private nursing,” I began, automatic refusal forming on my lips. My schedule barely accommodated my current responsibilities, and moonlighting violated my NHS contract terms.
His cold smile stopped my words. “This isn't a request for home care,” he corrected softly. “It's an opportunity to solve your sister's financial situation. Permanently.”
I froze, ice flooding my veins as his words registered. How did this dangerous stranger know about Isabelle? About ourfinancial struggles? The card suddenly felt like a burning coal between my fingers.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said carefully, instinctive caution raising defences honed through childhood in London's roughest neighbourhoods.
“Isabella Hastings, twenty-two, autoimmune lymphoproliferative syndrome with atypical presentation. Experimental immunotherapy treatment authorisation expires in twenty-eight days. Reauthorisation requires fifty thousand pounds that you don't have.” His recitation of these private details was casual, matter-of-fact. “Your sister's recovery shows promise, but without continued treatment, relapse is virtually guaranteed.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, anger flaring alongside fear. “Have you been accessing confidential medical records? That's illegal.”
“Many things are illegal, Mr. Hastings,” he replied with casual dismissal. “What matters is whether they serve necessary purposes.”
My eyes flicked involuntarily toward the blood stains being cleaned from the floor nearby. This man had been shot—whether by James Wilson during today's hospital incident or in some earlier confrontation, I couldn't be sure. The wound I'd treated appeared consistent with older trauma rather than fresh injury, but Wilson himself was now 'subdued' and Calloway stood before me without his security detail, seemingly unconcerned about being in the same building where someone had tried to kill him.
The corridor suddenly felt colder, the shadows deeper. This man represented something dangerous, something outside the ordered world of medicine and protocols I'd built my life around. Yet in his words lay the possibility—however suspect—of solving the impossible equation that kept me awake at night.
“What exactly are you proposing?” I asked, caution warring with desperate curiosity.
“My regular physician is retiring. I require someone with specific expertise in burn scar maintenance and trauma care. Someone discreet, capable under pressure, and unencumbered by excessive moral rigidity.” His eyes held mine, searching for something beyond my professional qualifications. “Your work today demonstrated technical skill and remarkable composure during a security threat. Your history suggests adaptability to challenging circumstances.”
I should have walked away. Everything about this encounter screamed warning—the man's obvious criminal connections, his unsettling knowledge of my private circumstances, the implicit threat beneath his cultured tones. But Isabelle's face floated in my mind, her trust that I would somehow fix things, as I always had.
My fingers tightened around the business card, the embossed letters pressing into my skin. “And if I refuse?”
His smile never reached his eyes. “Then you continue as you are, watching the calendar count down while bureaucrats decide your sister's fate. The choice is entirely yours, Mr. Hastings. Freedom often lies in acknowledging when choice itself is an illusion.”
With that cryptic statement, he walked away, his gait betraying no hint of the injury I'd treated hours earlier. I stood frozen in the dimly lit corridor, his business card clutched in my trembling hand, the weight of impossible decisions pressing down like a physical force.
Twenty-eight days until Isabelle's treatment authorisation expired. Fifty thousand pounds required for reauthorisation. A mysterious, dangerous man offering solution wrapped in implicit threat.
What choice did I really have?
4
DESPERATE MEASURES
NOAH
Istared at the business card in my dimly lit flat, turning it over repeatedly between my fingers. The heavy card stock felt significant against my skin, the embossed lettering catching what little light filtered through the thin curtains. Three hours had passed since our strange encounter in the hospital corridor, yet sleep remained as elusive as the solutions I desperately needed.
London's ambient city noise provided a fitting soundtrack to my moral crisis—distant sirens, occasional shouts from late-night revellers, the persistent hum of a metropolis that never truly slept. My tiny Brixton flat felt even more cramped tonight, the walls pressing in with each passing hour as I contemplated crossing lines I'd promised myself I never would.
The business card contained only a name and number. Such minimalism spoke volumes about the man who'd handed it to me—someone so confident in his identity that elaboration was unnecessary. Adrian Calloway. The name had circled in my mind since our encounter, accompanied by the unsettlingmemory of those heterochromatic eyes studying me with cold calculation.
My laptop screen glowed with search results, casting ghostly blue light across my unshaven face. I'd spent hours digging for information—Adrian Calloway, owner of legitimate businesses including The Raven's Nest nightclub and various property holdings across London. Mentions of charitable donations to burn victim organisations and children's hospitals appeared alongside whispered forum posts about criminal connections and unexplained disappearances. The disparate fragments painted a picture of a man straddling worlds, his feet planted firmly in both legitimacy and something far darker.
“Fuck,” I muttered, rubbing my tired eyes.
I pulled up Isabelle's medical file, which I wasn't supposed to access remotely—another rule broken in a night rapidly accumulating ethical compromises. The treatment authorisation form glared back at me, the requirements outlined in sterile, bureaucratic language that disguised the human cost of compliance. Fifty-thousand-pound deposit required within twenty-eight days. Money I didn't have and couldn't borrow through any conventional means.
The reality of our situation hit me anew with each paragraph of medical jargon. Without continued treatment, Isabelle's hard-won remission would crumble like sand castles against incoming tide. Two years of fighting, of watching my vibrant sister endure pain beyond description, all potentially undone by financial limitations and insurance company algorithms designed to maximise profit rather than healing.
I opened my banking app, the balance pitiful despite working double shifts for months. Savings depleted by the initial rounds of treatment. Credit cards maxed. The second job I'd interviewed for last week at a private clinic would barely make a dent in what Isabelle needed. Her life dependedon treatment continuity, on medicine flowing through her veins without interruption. The weight of this responsibility pressed against my chest, making each breath a conscious effort.
The bedside clock blinked 4:17 AM, its red digits accusatory. My shift started in less than four hours, yet another day of life-or-death decisions made through the fog of exhaustion. The irony didn't escape me—I saved strangers daily while potentially failing the one person who mattered most.
