Chris didn't call the police.
He didn't even reach for his phone. instead, he simply snapped his fingers.
The heavy oak doors to the office swung open, and two men stepped inside.
Burt knew them. They were the hospital's private security detail—men built like vending machines, with necks thick enough to absorb a baseball bat swing.
"Tyson. Mark," Chris said, his voice bored. "Our former ambulance driver is having trouble holding a pen. Help him."
Burt stumbled back, his hands raised in a pathetic gesture of surrender. "Wait. Chris, wait! We can talk about this. I don't need the full amount right now. Just-just give me enough for rent and…"
Tyson didn't let him finish.
A fist the size of a sledgehammer slammed into Burt's stomach.
The air left Burt's lungs in a wheezing gasp.
He folded in half, his knees hitting the expensive Persian rug with a thud. Before he could suck in a breath, a heavy boot connected with his ribs.
Crack.
Pain exploded in his side, white-hot and blinding.
He curled into a ball, coughing, trying to protect his head, but another kick sent him sprawling onto his back.
"Please!" Burt wheezed, blood already coating his teeth. He looked up, his vision swimming, searching for the one person who might save him. "Liz! Elizabeth! Tell them to stop!"
Elizabeth Gold didn't look up.
She was inspecting a smudge on her manicure, her expression one of mild annoyance.
"Keep it down, Burt," she said softly as if scolding a noisy child in a library. "I have a board meeting in twenty minutes. I can't go in with a headache."
The words hurt more than the boots.
"Hold him up," Chris ordered.
Tyson grabbed Burt by the collar of his cheap shirt and hauled him up like a ragdoll.
Burt's legs were jelly. He dangled there, gasping, blood dripping from his nose onto his worn-out shoes.
Chris stepped closer, holding out the divorce papers and the pen.
"Sign," he whispered, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
"No," Burt mumbled through swollen lips.
A spark of defiance, fueled by sheer desperation, flickered in his chest. "My money…"
Chris sighed and nodded to Mark. "You're not doing your work. He still doesn't get it."
Mark stepped forward and grabbed Burt's right hand.
His dominant hand, the hand he had spent years training to be steady for surgery.
Burt's eyes trembled and he parted his lips, intending to say something when the guard suddenly bent the fingers back until the tendons screamed.
"A surgeon needs good hands, doesn't he? Be a shame if something… snapped." Chris mocked, slipping a hand into his pocket.
"No! No, please!" Burt shrieked, the pain finally overriding his desire for the money. "I'll sign! I'll sign!"
Chris shoved the document against the wall.
Tyson slammed Burt's face against the plaster next to it, pinning him there.
With trembling, blood-slicked fingers, Burt gripped the pen.
He wrote his name. Burt Loy.
It was a messy, jagged scrawl, nothing like the neat signature he used to practice on medical forms.
"There," Chris snatched the paper away, checking it with a satisfied grin. "Was that so hard?"
Burt slumped against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor.
He wiped his mouth, smearing blood across his cheek. "My… my severance?"
Chris laughed. It was a dark, ugly sound.
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He fished out a single, crumpled five-dollar bill and flicked it at Burt.
The bill fluttered through the air and landed in the pool of blood near Burt's knee.
"There's your severance. Don't spend it all in one place."
"Get him out of here," Elizabeth finally spoke up, getting on her feet to smooth down her skirt. "And call the cleaners. He got filth everywhere."
Tyson and Mark grabbed Burt under his arms and dragged him.
They dragged him out of the office, down the pristine white hallway.
Nurses and doctors—people Burt had worked alongside for four years, people he had brought coffee to, people he had covered shifts for—stopped and watched.
No one said a word.
Some looked away in embarrassment. Others, the ones who wanted to climb the corporate ladder, mimicked Chris' sneer.
"Is that the ambulance driver?"
"I heard he tried to steal drugs."
"Pathetic."
Burt wanted to scream that it was a lie, but he didn't have the breath.
They reached the rear exit, the one that led to the loading bay where the medical waste dumpsters were kept.
Tyson kicked the door open. A gust of cold wind and rain swept in.
"One, two…" Mark grunted.
On three, they heaved him.
Burt flew through the air and crashed hard onto the wet asphalt. He rolled, his shoulder slamming into a pile of black garbage bags.
The smell of rotting food and antiseptic wash hit him instantly.
The door slammed shut behind him, its lock clicking.
Burt lay there in the rain, the water soaking into his clothes, mixing with the blood on his shirt. He was shivering, his ribs burning with every breath.
He reached for the crumpled five-dollar bill he had instinctively clutched in his hand. It was soggy now, tearing apart in his grip.
He looked up at the towering glass building of Gold Medical. Through the second-floor window, he saw a silhouette.
Elizabeth.
She was looking down at him. For a second, he thought… hoped she might look regretful.
Then, she reached up and closed the blinds.
Burt let out a sob that tore through his throat. He curled into a ball among the trash bags, the cold rain masking the tears streaming down his face.
He wasn't a husband. He wasn't a doctor. He wasn't even an employee.
He was just refuse. And trash belonged with the trash.