Page 3 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

Maya raises a brow. “Mysterious.”

“Not really,” I murmur, closing the chart. My tone stays casual, but my body shifts—shoulders drawn tight, legs folding beneath the table. Not defensive. Just shut.

She leans back in her chair, letting it go. “Well, whatever it is, I hope it involves food and not blood.”

I offer a faint smile. “Don’t they usually go together in this line of work?”

“That’s what I’m saying. You deserve one day where you’re not elbow-deep in someone’s spleen.” She stretches her arms above her head with a groan. “I’m supposed to have brunch with my sister tomorrow. Guaranteed passive-aggression and overcooked eggs. Maybe I’ll swap with you.”

“Tempting,” I say dryly, reaching for my coffee again.

A burst of laughter echoes from the hallway. A nurse passes by the window in a blur of motion, clipboard in hand. The rhythm of the hospital never really stops. It just cycles—chaos to exhaustion, back again.

Maya stands with a sigh and tightens her ponytail. “Alright. Back to the trenches. Room 4’s CT is back, and I already know I’m going to fight radiology about it.”

I nod. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” She pauses at the door, glancing back. “You know, if you ever want to talk about your mysterious plans, I’m all ears. No pressure.”

“I know,” I say, already turning back to the files. “Thanks.”

When she leaves, the break room falls quiet again—just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant beep of a monitor somewhere down the corridor. I sit still for a moment longer, pen resting idle between my fingers. My gaze drifts toward the corkboard in the corner, cluttered with outdated flyers and an old “thank you” card taped over CPR instructions.

I take another sip of coffee. It’s gone cold enough to make me wince. I set the cup down.

My hands move without thought, flipping open a new file. My eyes skim the intake notes. Another patient. Another case. A buffer between me and whatever tomorrow holds.

I don’t lie often. It’s not in my nature. But when Maya asked, something inside me twisted tight. A reflex I couldn’t quite explain. The truth felt too sharp in my throat.

Somewhere important to be.

That much is true—even if the thought of tomorrow leaves something strange and weightless in my chest.

My shift’s not over. Patients are still waiting. Wounds still need closing. Vitals still need checking.

I rise from the chair and gather the files—one under my arm, the rest pressed to my chest. My steps are steady as I walk out, but my mind is elsewhere.

Not on the charts. Not on the next room.

On the space between now and tomorrow.

On whatever might be waiting there.

The halls are quieter now that my shift’s ending, but they never really sleep. The monitors still beep in their familiar rhythm. The wheels of carts still squeak against linoleum.

I walk them like a ghost, clipboard tucked tight, feet slower now. The rounds are done. The charts signed off. The bleeding—at least for now—staunched.

My bones ache with the kind of fatigue that lives beneath the skin—heavy and deep, too settled to shake off with coffee or adrenaline. I walk through the near-empty corridor on autopilot, a slow drag of footsteps over worn linoleum.

Above me, the fluorescent lights flicker once, casting the waiting area in a brief, stuttering glare. The chairs are lined up in their neat, sterile rows, untouched since the last round of visitors trickled out. The vending machine hums softly near the doors, its dull glow turning the windows into mirrors. I catch my reflection and barely recognize what looks back—dark circles etched under my eyes, curls half-fallen from the tie at the nape of my neck, the stark white of my coat making my skin appear paler than it is.

I push through the double doors and step into the night.

The cold slaps me clean across the face.

For a moment, I just stand there and breathe. Steam curls from my mouth in slow spirals, each exhale sharp in the frigid air. The street is quiet. Fog clings to the edges of the pavement, glowing faintly under the amber streetlights like something left behind. Somewhere far off, a siren wails—not urgent, not close. Just another sound drifting through a city that never really rests.

I cross the street to the staff lot, keys already in hand. My car’s where it always is—dusty blue, a few dents along the back left door from an icy winter I haven’t bothered to forget. I slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut behind me. My forehead rests against the steering wheel for a moment. Then another.

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