Page 22 of Never Quite Gone

“He doesn't need proof.” The words tasted bitter as old coffee. “Just enough doubt to halt the project. To get his hands on those sealed records.”

The hospital blueprints spread across the table like a crime scene. My fingers traced the wing Vale wanted demolished, the paper crackling under my touch. The whole thing stank of obsession – the kind that made men destroy themselves and everyone around them.

The city stretched out beyond my windows, a maze of glass and steel catching the last rays of sunlight. Somewhere out there, Vale was making his moves, playing a game where Eli's career was just collateral damage in something bigger and darker than hospital politics.

“The construction permits are ready,” Marcus said, grounding me back in the practical world of corporate strategy and legal maneuvers. “Once they're filed, Vale's options for fucking with the physical development become limited.”

Night crept over Manhattan like spilled ink, office lights flickering on in a domino effect across the skyline. I stayed at the window, watching the city transform from concrete jungle to constellation of artificial stars. Each light could be Vale, working late to destroy everything. Each shadow could hide another piece of the puzzle I couldn't quite solve.

The whiskey burned going down, but it couldn't touch the cold certainty in my gut. Tomorrow's board meeting wasn't just about hospital politics or development deals. It was about Eli. About Vale. About the strange connection between a brilliant ER doctor and a piece of hospital architecture that shouldn't matter but somehow meant everything.

But standing here, watching the city lights mirror the hidden stars above the pollution and power lines, I let myself believe in something different. Something better. The game wasn't over. The pieces weren't set. And tomorrow, at that board meeting, I'd make damn sure Vale learned the difference between corporate chess and mutually assured destruction.

CHAPTER 7

What Once Was

Ancient Greece – 432 BCE

The sacred spring bubbled beneathmy hands as I prepared the morning's medicines, its waters blessed by Asclepius himself. Dawn painted the temple in hues of rose and gold, transforming ordinary marble into something divine. The Aegean's breath carried the essence of my healing gardens—crushed thyme, wild lavender, and the sharp sweetness of feverfew.

My fingers moved with the surety granted by years of service, grinding herbs with practiced reverence. The position of chief healer was both blessing and burden, granted by the gods themselves. In these troubled times, with war darkening our horizons, the weight pressed heavier still.

“The warriors return today,” Sofia murmured, her priestess's robes rustling like owl wings in the morning stillness. Her words, though gentle, pierced me like Apollo's arrows. How could I forget? The campaign against Sparta had raged through countless moons, and soon our temple would overflow with the battle-worn and dying.

But it was not only duty that quickened my pulse. One warrior's face haunted my dreams like a visitation fromthe gods—Alexandros, whose eyes held the storm-tossed might of Poseidon's realm. Our meetings before the campaign had been brief as summer lightning, yet they had branded themselves upon my soul.

“The gods test us in strange ways, Elias,” Sofia observed, her dark eyes carrying wisdom beyond her years. “Even the greatest healing can begin with a wound.”

“Speak plainly, Priestess,” I replied, though we both knew her meaning. “These remedies require focus.”

“As you wish.” A smile touched her lips. “Though perhaps it is not my words that trouble your focus.”

Before I could respond, the first cries reached us—wounded being carried up the temple steps on makeshift litters. The day of reckoning had arrived.

The temple filled quickly with the aftermath of war. Blood stained the sacred marble as soldiers groaned prayers to gods who seemed to have abandoned them. I moved among them as Asclepius had taught me, my hands steady as I cut through ruined flesh, cleaned festering wounds, and stitched skin with threads blessed in the sacred spring.

They called me blessed, these broken warriors. They whispered that my touch could call men back from Hades' shadowed realm. But such whispers were dangerous—the gods were jealous of their powers, and I was merely their instrument.

“Chief Healer!” The cry came from the temple steps. “We have another!”

My heart seized in my chest as they carried him in. Alexandros lay still as death upon his shield, his golden armor dulled by blood and grime. The wound in his side wept darkness—poison's cruel kiss marking flesh I had dreamed of touching under far different circumstances.

“He has fought the fever for three days,” said the soldier who bore him, voice heavy with the weight of too many losses. “We feared to move him, but...”

“You did right to bring him here,” I said, my voice steadythough my soul trembled. “Quickly now—bring fresh water and clean linens.”

Piece by piece, I removed his armor, each layer revealing more of the man beneath the warrior. My fingers traced the poison's path through his flesh, marking where darkness had taken root. Though I had treated countless such wounds, none had ever felt so vital to my own survival.

His eyes fluttered open as I worked, green as the sea after a storm. Even clouded by fever, they held me like a prophecy fulfilled. “I knew,” he whispered, the words carrying on barely a breath. “I knew I would find you here.”

The words shouldn't have shaken me—fever often brought strange utterances. But something in his voice resonated with truths older than memory, deeper than reason.

“Be still,” I commanded softly, though my own heart raced like Apollo's chariot across the sky. “Save your strength.”

“I've strength enough for truth,” he murmured, his fevered gaze holding mine with fierce certainty. “I saw you... before. In dreams sent by the gods themselves.”

Sofia appeared at my side with fresh bandages, her presence both comfort and witness. “The Fates weave as they will,” she said softly, her words carrying weight beyond their meaning. “Some threads are dyed in blood.”

---