NICK
The hospital always smelled of the same thing: expensive soap and a faint, sharp edge of chemicals.
It was mid-afternoon, and I was in the small, quiet window between my last patient and my next surgery. Most surgeons used this time to finish charts or drink bad coffee, but I preferred the silence.
My phone vibrated against the wood of the desk. I didn't have to look at the screen to know who it was. The rhythm of the buzz was insistent.
Lila.
I picked up. Before I could even say a word, her voice spilled into the line. She sounded breathless, the way she always did when she was carrying a piece of gossip that had finally reached critical mass.
"Nick," she said, her voice a sharp whisper. "Nick, I found something. I've been digging for days, and you have no idea, this is not what I expected. Like—at all. I had to go through three different archives just to—"
"Lila—" I said. My voice was a flat line.
