Page 2 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

“Nice catch,” one of the techs mutters as he passes.

I don’t respond.

There’s no time.

Outside the bay, the hallway smells of antiseptic and wet fabric, the air conditioner kicking on in short, unpredictable bursts. I lean briefly against the wall beside the linen cart and close my eyes for three seconds. No more. Just enough to let the adrenaline settle, to let the tremble in my hands fade.

Three seconds, then I’m walking again.

Back at the nurses’ station, someone’s left a cup of coffee beside my clipboard. Cold, but untouched. I sip it anyway, grateful for the bitter sting—it keeps me upright more than the caffeine does.

Marcus passes me, wheeling an empty gurney. One of the younger nurses, always moving like he’s trying to outrun the night.

“You good?” he asks, already halfway past.

“Fine.”

“You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

He grins and disappears around the corner. I smile faintly to myself, rubbing the back of my neck. Every muscle in my body aches, even ones I didn’t know existed. My shoes are damp from blood or water—I don’t check. My stomach growls in complaint. My head pounds from the hours I’ve spent under relentless fluorescent lighting.

But I’m still standing.

That counts for something.

A new chart slides into the inbox. I grab it without looking. Room 7. Head trauma. Domestic violence. The kind of case that always hits differently, even now.

I exhale—just once—and head down the hall.

My night isn’t over yet.

The break room is barely lit when I slip inside. One dim bulb casts a sickly yellow glow over the dented lockers and the scuffed-up table in the middle of the room. A dying Ficus droops in the corner near the microwave, its leaves coated in a thin layer of dust no one’s bothered to clean. I sit hunched at the table, elbows resting on a stack of charts, and wrap both hands around a disposable cup of coffee that’s lukewarm at best.

It tastes burnt—like it’s been sitting in the pot since the last shift change—but I drink it anyway. At this hour, caffeine is more ritual than remedy.

I scan the patient notes in front of me, pen tapping against the rim of the cup. A concussion with delayed reaction time. A chest X-ray flagged for shadowing. A three-year-old with a suspected spiral fracture. My pen hovers for a moment, then moves quickly—short, efficient strokes. Everything neat. Contained. Controlled.

The door creaks open behind me. I don’t look up.

“God, this night is crawling,” Maya groans as she drops into the chair beside me. Her lead apron from radiology still hangs off one shoulder, and she pulls her scrub cap off with a groan, raking her fingers through messy curls. “I swear I’ve aged ten years since midnight.”

I hum in agreement, offering only the smallest glance before going back to the charts.

Maya leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “You know, we’re technically allowed to have lives. I checked. It’s in the contract. Fine print, bottom corner, right under where it says ‘will endure hell for peanuts.’”

A soft huff escapes me, the corner of my mouth twitching toward a smile, though it never quite forms. I flip the page and reach for the next chart.

“Don’t tell me you’re back tomorrow,” she says, squinting at me. “Seriously, Elise, take a breath. Go home. Sleep. Watch something stupid on TV.”

“I’m not on schedule,” I reply, still reading. “I’ve got somewhere important to be.”

There’s a pause. Not long. Just enough for the air to shift.

“Family?” she asks gently.

“No.” I pause, then add, “Just something I have to handle.”

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