The engine purred to life.
Sylus pulled out of the garage without looking at me once.
Fine.
Expected.
Predictable.
He hadn't come into my room by accident. Sylus didn't do accidents.
He'd gone there for something — or to confirm something.
I couldn't let him leave it hanging.
"You came to find me earlier," I said quietly. "Did you need anything? Before we go?"
His hand tightened on the wheel. Not a flinch, not a twitch — just a brief, controlled contraction before he loosened his grip again.
Barely there. But enough.
A beat.
"No."
The word landed low, compressed. Final.
I studied his profile, waiting for what he wasn't saying.
But I got nothing.
So I turned back toward the windshield. He was probably still angry. Or disappointed. Or recalculating the cost of bringing me at all.
Then he spoke again — quieter.
"I came in because I heard you coughing."
My pulse stumbled.
Not from fear.
"I was managing," I said, glancing at him.
His jaw flexed once — unreadable.
Then:
"Do you regret accepting the job?"
Clipped. Controlled.
Not concern.
Not reassurance.
A test.
Not of fear — of ownership.
I understood it then. He wasn't asking whether this was dangerous. He knew it was.
He wasn't asking whether I wanted out. He wouldn't stop me if I did.
He was asking whether I still believed I was here by choice — and whether that choice would hold.
He didn't want me working for him just because I was running from Viktor.
He wanted commitment.
"It depends," I said. "Do you regret bringing me along?"
"No."
Immediate. Unqualified.
"Are you considering firing me?"
"No."
I exhaled.
"Then I regret nothing."
I didn't justify it.
Didn't mention Viktor.
Didn't frame it as survival.
I claimed it.
The rest of the drive passed without a single coughing fit — a mercy, considering the way every breath still scraped like broken glass.
The car rolled through the hospital's gate, then veered toward a narrow ramp marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
We descended one level. Then another.
Instead of stopping in the staff garage, he took a branching ramp. No signage. No ID scanners. Just a biometric gate that opened the instant the Aston Martin approached.
A private access.
A private floor.
The ramp emptied into a polished underground bay — no cars except ours.
Sylus parked in a space marked only with his name.
An entire floor. For him.
I didn't pretend this was normal.
Sylus stepped out without comment, like bringing someone here was inconsequential.
I followed carefully.
A soft chime sounded from the far wall. Sliding doors opened automatically.
I blinked.
Sylus didn't.
He walked toward the doors with that same controlled stride, pausing only when he sensed I was a step behind. His head turned slightly — not enough to be a real look, just enough to acknowledge me.
"Keep your breathing shallow," he said quietly.
Instruction, not concern.
Command, not comfort.
But something in the way he said it made my pulse skip anyway.
I forced my feet to move, ribs aching with each controlled inhale.
The doors slid open fully. A man in pale-gray scrubs stepped out — mid-fifties, neatly trimmed beard, posture straight as a scalpel.
He bowed his head slightly.
"Good evening, Mr. Sylus."
Evening?
It was far past that. But maybe even clocks bent to Sylus's will down here.
Sylus lifted a hand — not dismissing, just directing.
"She's the patient."
His palm settled between my shoulder blades — light, steady, unmistakable in its clarity.
The medic's eyes shifted to me. Confusion flickered — subtle, but there.
Then his gaze landed on the Onychinus pendant at my neck.
Recognition snapped his posture into sharp alignment.
"Ah. A new operative. My apologies — I wasn't informed of your arrival. Right this way, the personnel wing is—"
"No."
Sylus didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
The medic froze.
"She goes that way," Sylus said, indicating a corridor that branched deeper into the private floor.
The medic blinked once.
"Of course. My apologies."
He stepped aside immediately, bowing deeper this time.
Sylus moved forward without waiting for escort. His hand stayed at my back just long enough to align my pace with his. Not falling behind, not drifting, not wavering.
When his hand finally lifted, the absence felt like losing a point of contact I didn't realize I'd been orienting around.
As we passed, a few staff glanced up.
Then they saw Sylus.
Then me beside him.
They looked away instantly.
The lighting softened as we moved deeper — warmer, controlled. The air temperature shifted. The hall widened. Everything was quieter. More deliberate.
Not a medical bay.
A sanctum.
Sylus stopped at an opaque glass door that unlocked the moment he approached — a resonant chime acknowledging only him.
The room beyond glowed with white and gold light, filled with equipment so advanced it looked more military than medical.
Private.
Protected.
Untouchable.
He stepped inside.
Then turned slightly, eyes flicking back.
"Come."
Not an order.
Not encouragement.
Something in between.
I stepped in.
The door sealed behind us with a soft magnetic click.
Two clinicians straightened instantly. A woman in her forties with sharp eyes, and a younger tech preparing a console.
"Mr. Sylus," the doctor said. Calm. Respectful — but not fearful.
Sylus gave a small nod and stepped aside — giving me space, but not leaving.
The doctor's gaze shifted to me with professional focus. "I'm Dr. Hsu. You're the patient tonight?"
I stepped forward, posture aligned, breath carefully shallow. "Yes."
"Name?"
"Diana Vale."
Her fingers moved quickly across the console. "And what brings you in?"
I kept my face neutral, but the words felt too exposed in my mouth.
"Five days ago I was inside a structure that suffered an explosion," I said carefully. "I exited with two cracked ribs and a minor internal bleed."
Dr. Hsu kept writing.
"Treated?"
"Yes. Stabilized. Told to avoid strain."
"And did you?"
Sylus's presence pressed behind me like gravity.
"…Mostly."
A lifted brow was all she offered.
"What was the nature of the strain?"
"There was an altercation."
"Forceful?"
"Yes."
"Direct strikes to the torso?"
"No."
"But you exerted power."
"Yes."
She tapped her pen.
"Onset of symptoms?"
"I started coughing blood shortly after."
"How many episodes?"
"Three. One mild. Two… not mild."
"What did your primary physician say?" she asked.
"Dr. Zayne requested full thoracic imaging."
Dr. Hsu's pen paused — not dramatically, just a precise halt mid-stroke. Her eyes lifted to mine with a different kind of focus.
A cardiac surgeon?
Her expression didn't say the words, but I could read the question in the micro-tightening at the corner of her mouth.
"Dr. Zayne," she repeated, neutral but sharpened. "Understood."
Her tone shifted — not deferential, but immediately more exact, as though she'd recalibrated her internal thresholds.
"Then we'll proceed with full thoracic CT with contrast," she said, already typing faster. "He doesn't make unnecessary requests."
She stepped closer, studying my breathing. "Any shortness of breath?"
"A little."
"Pain level?" Dr. Hsu asked.
"Manageable."
Her gaze lifted from the tablet. Not doubting — evaluating.
"Most patients with cracked ribs," she said carefully, "would not consider escalating pain after exertion manageable. Are you certain you're not underreporting?"
I blinked. Underreporting?
No — this was manageable.
Years of off-record assignments had taught me to function inside pain thresholds most people never approached.
Stopping for pain had never been an option.
If I paused every time something hurt, I would've died five times over.
"I'm certain," I said simply.
Dr. Hsu watched my face for another beat — reading the microexpressions, not the words — then made a small, almost resigned note on her tablet.
"Before anything else, we need to do some bloodwork," she nodded to the younger tech, who stepped forward with a tray already prepared.
"Right arm, please."
I offered my arm.
The needle slid in cleanly; two vials filled with dark red.
When the tech finished, Dr. Hsu said:
"Alright. Now you can change into the gown. Everything off except undergarments — including any jewelry."
I nodded.
Inside the bathroom, I peeled my clothes off and dressed slowly, breathing through each flare of pain.
When I stepped out—
Sylus was gone.
Only Dr. Hsu remained.
"Follow me."
The corridor was silent — too silent.
She opened a door to the imaging room.
Bright. Cold. Clean.
The CT machine hummed softly, its circular frame lit from within.
A technician approached, gloved and prepared.
"I'll place the IV now," he said.
I extended my arm.
A brief alcohol swab.
A small pinch.
The catheter slid in smoothly; tape anchored it in place.
"You'll feel warmth when the contrast goes in. Don't be alarmed."
He stepped aside.
"Up on the table," Dr. Hsu instructed. "Slowly."
I climbed on inch by inch.
The cradle adjusted around my ribs with precision.
"Keep your breathing shallow."
I nodded.
She paused at the doorway.
"If your pain spikes, raise your hand — do not speak."
I nodded again.
She left.
The machine began to move.
The table slid inward.
Cool air brushed over my face.
"Beginning scan," her voice crackled through the intercom.
I closed my eyes.
Small breaths.
Shallow.
Even.
The machine whirred.
A halo of light swept across my ribs.
The first rotation completed—
A soft mechanical pause.
"Injecting contrast," the intercom announced.
A sudden heat rushed through my arm, blooming across my chest and pooling low in my abdomen.
A metallic taste flooded the back of my tongue.
I kept still.
Kept breathing.
Let the warmth unfurl and fade as the machine resumed its sweep.
The machine finally stilled.
A soft click, a shift of air pressure, the cradle sliding back. My ribs ached as the table rose to its neutral position.
"Scan complete," Dr. Hsu's voice said through the speaker. "Stay still until I enter."
A moment later, the door opened. She reappeared wearing the same composed, focused expression she'd had from the beginning. Nothing in her demeanor revealed anything about what she'd seen.
Good or not.
I couldn't tell.
"Let's get you back to the suite," she said.
I nodded and eased myself off the table. Each movement felt like twisting glass under my ribs, but I kept my face still.
When we reached the suite door, it opened with a soft chime—Sylus waited just inside, seated in the big armchair next to the bed.
He didn't move.
Didn't approach.
Didn't ask.
Just watched. Whether he was looking at me or through me, I couldn't tell.
Dr. Hsu gestured toward the bed.
"Have a seat, Ms. Vale. I want to review a few findings from your imaging before we discuss next steps."
I sat carefully, palms on the mattress, breath shallow.
She pulled up the scan on her tablet—black, white, and muted color fields flickering across the display.
Her tone remained clinical, measured.
"I'm going to ask you a few questions about previous injuries visible on the scan. Just what I need to know to treat you safely tonight."
I nodded once.
"First," Dr. Hsu said, angling the tablet so I could see a faint distortion along the left ribcage, "you have an old rib fracture that healed with slight malalignment. Approximately how long ago did that occur?"
"A very long time ago," I said.
She nodded—accepting that.
"This matters because malunited ribs can place added strain on surrounding tissue during new injuries. I need to know if that area has ever caused you instability or pain."
"It hasn't."
"Good."
She typed a quick note.
"Second," she continued, swiping to another image, "there is healed pulmonary contusion scarring—likely from blunt trauma to the chest. Was that ever treated?"
"Hm. I'm not sure."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Depending on how old the scarring is, it can affect lung expansion under stress. That changes how we interpret episodes of coughing blood. Can you recall any situation where you might have taken a hit strong enough to bruise lung tissue? Something that caused difficulty breathing for several days?"
My pulse tightened, but I kept my expression still.
"Yes. That rings a bell. It was a long time ago. It wasn't treated immediately."
Dr. Hsu exchanged a brief, unreadable glance with Sylus.
"And lastly," she said, rotating the tablet again, "you have an old scapular fracture on the right side. These are uncommon—they require significant force."
Her eyes lifted to mine—not judging, not prying, just assessing.
"How long ago was this injury?"
"A long time ago," I said. "I recovered fully."
"That's all I needed to know," Dr. Hsu said simply while one last note into her tablet, then looked up.
"Alright," she said. "The next step is simple. I want an ultrasound to check for fluid accumulation."
I nodded. "Can I change back into my clothes before that?"
She shook her head gently. "The gown gives us fast access and prevents you from twisting to remove tight clothing again. The less strain on your ribs between tests, the better."
Reasonable. Annoying. But reasonable.
"I understand."
A second later, a portable ultrasound unit rolled in — sleek, compact, chrome accents instead of plastic.
A young technician accompanied it, but Dr. Hsu dismissed him with a nod.
"I'll handle it myself."
The technician nodded and dimmed the light on his way out.
She adjusted the incline of the bed and pulled on gloves. "Lie back, please. Slowly."
I eased down onto the mattress, careful to keep my torso straight. Pain bloomed under my ribs, sharp enough to blur my vision for a second. I forced the breath out through my nose — small, controlled.
Dr. Hsu wheeled the machine closer.
"I'm checking for fluid pockets," she said, applying warm gel along the lower edge of my ribs. "If the bleed worsened after exertion, they'll show here."
The probe touched my skin.
Cool pressure.
A faint hum.
I watched the ceiling while she worked, because looking at Sylus felt… unsafe.
The doctor angled the probe beneath the rib arch. My breath hitched before I could stop it.
"Pain?" she asked.
"Yes."
She hummed.
Images shifted across her screen. She adjusted the probe, pressed slightly harder.
My fingers curled against the sheets.
Dr. Hsu nodded to herself, made a small annotation with her stylus.
"Good," she murmured. "This helps clarify what we saw in the CT."
And for the first time since leaving the imaging room, I let my eyes flick toward Sylus.
Just a fraction.
His gaze was already on me.
Not sharp.
Not angry.
Just… watching.
I looked away quickly.
Dr. Hsu moved the probe to another angle, closer to the sternum.
"Hold your breath."
I did.
"Exhale."
I let it out slowly, shallowly.
When the scan was complete, she wiped away the gel and stepped back.
"All done," she said. "I'll have results shortly. Don't move too much until then."
She stepped out.
The suite door whispered shut.
Silence settled — thin, tight, like holding a breath past the point of safety.
I didn't look at him.
Couldn't.
One wrong inhale and everything I'd kept sealed — the pain, the restraint, the tremor under my ribs — would slip through the cracks.
A soft sound broke the quiet.
Not a word.
Just the faintest shift of his breath — controlled, deliberate, as if he were holding something still inside himself too.
I kept my eyes on the ceiling.
And the silence kept tightening, waiting for someone — either of us — to break first.