Images of Calloway's scarred face floated before my tired eyes. The extensive burn damage told a story of catastrophic injury and remarkable survival, of pain endured and transformed. There was something almost hypnotic about the contrast between the damaged and undamaged sides of his face, a visual representation of duality that seemed too perfect a metaphor for the choice now before me.
As dawn broke, pale light creeping across my cluttered flat, I finally made a decision. The mental arithmetic was brutally simple: my sister's life against whatever compromise Calloway would demand. When balanced thus, no real choice existed.
I picked up my phone and dialled the number on the card, heart pounding against my ribs hard enough to hurt. It rang once before Adrian's cool voice answered, as if he'd been waiting, perhaps even expecting my call at this precise moment.
“I knew you'd call, Mr. Hastings,” he said, satisfaction evident in his cultured tones.
The certainty in his voice should have angered me, but instead sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. The sensation wasn't entirely unpleasant—a fact that disturbed me more than his presumption.
“I want to hear more about your proposition,” I replied, fighting to keep my voice steady, professional. “No commitments yet.”
“Of course,” he responded smoothly. “Tomorrow evening, eight o'clock. A car will collect you.”
“Where am I going?” I asked, already knowing I'd receive no satisfactory answer.
“Somewhere private, where we can discuss matters properly.” His voice carried a note of finality that discouraged further questions. “Until tomorrow, Mr. Hastings.”
The line went dead, leaving me with the distinct impression that I'd just taken the first step onto a bridge I would never be able to uncross.
I arrivedfor my regular morning shift despite my sleepless night, mechanically checking supplies while my mind replayed my brief phone conversation with Calloway. The hospital's familiar rhythms should have been comforting, but today they felt like the ticking of a clock counting down to something irreversible.
The emergency department bustled with its usual controlled chaos—nurses changing shifts, doctors reviewing cases, patients in various states of distress waiting for attention. The normalcy felt surreal after the events of yesterday. Had it really been less than twenty-four hours since I'd treated Calloway’s gunshot wound? Since I'd witnessed an armed man being “neutralised” by Calloway's security team? The blood stains had been scrubbed clean, the police tape removed, as if nothing had happened.
“Bloody hell, you look terrible,” Mika commented, sliding a coffee toward me at the nurses' station. Her purple hair was freshly dyed, vibrant against the clinical whites and blues of the hospital. “More than usual terrible, I mean. Your sister okay?” Her perceptiveness was both comforting and concerning today.
I accepted the coffee gratefully, the scalding liquid momentarily distracting me from my exhaustion. “Just knackered,” I lied, avoiding her searching gaze. “Dr. Whitman wants to discuss Isabelle's treatment plan later. I'm hoping for good news.”
The half-truth tasted bitter on my tongue. I'd always been honest with Mika, who'd supported me through Isabelle's diagnosis and countless hospital crises. The small deception felt like another boundary crossed, another step away from the person I'd believed myself to be.
“Jonathan's been asking about you,” she said casually, though something in her expression suggested concern. “Seems proper bothered about something that happened during the lockdown yesterday.”
My hand tightened around the coffee cup. “Nothing happened.”
Mika raised an eyebrow. “That rich bloke with the scars. Jonathan says his security team handled that gunman before hospital security even responded. Says they weren't police or official personnel.”
“I was busy treating patients,” I replied carefully. “Didn't see much of anything.”
“Right,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “Well, Jon's on the warpath about proper protocols being ignored. Just giving you a heads-up.”
I nodded, grateful for the warning even as anxiety coiled tighter in my stomach. Jonathan had been a colleague and occasional friend since my transfer to the trauma unit, but his family connections to Scotland Yard made him dangerous territory now that I was considering Calloway's proposition.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I said, deliberately changing the subject. “I'll need it for the Abbott case. His post-surgical assessment is this morning.”
Mika allowed the deflection, though her eyes held questions she was too good a friend to force. We separated to attend our respective patients, the rhythm of the hospital providing welcome distraction from my internal turmoil.
Hours later, I found myself in Dr. Whitman's office for Isabelle's scheduled treatment review. The oncologist's expression was carefully neutral as he reviewed her charts, but I'd spent enough time in medical settings to recognise the subtle tells of concerning news.
“The treatment is working,” he confirmed, scrolling through her latest test results. “Her markers are significantly improved from three months ago. The experimental protocol is showing remarkable results in her specific case.”
Relief washed through me, momentarily displacing my anxiety about tomorrow's meeting with Calloway. “That's brilliant news.”
“But,” Dr. Whitman continued, his tone shifting subtly, “insurance is pushing back on the next phase. They're classifying it as experimental despite our documentation of efficacy.” He removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose—the universal sign of a doctor delivering unwelcome news. “We're appealing, of course, but these processes take time.”
The temporary relief evaporated, replaced by the cold reality of bureaucratic indifference. “What happens if there's an interruption in treatment?” I asked, already knowing but needing to hear it confirmed.
Dr. Whitman's expression turned grave. “Reversal of progress. Rapid deterioration. The protocol requires continuous administration to maintain effectiveness. An interruption could mean we'd be back to square one, but with a significantly weaker patient.” His voice softened with genuine compassion. “Isabelle might not have the reserves for another full course if we have to restart.”
The implication hung in the air between us. Without continued treatment, my sister would likely die.
