Page 48 of Infamous
We patch people up, hand them off, and move on. One patient bleeds into the next, their faces blurring somewhere between adrenaline and exhaustion. Very rarely do we see them again, and even rarer still do our paths ever cross outside the chaos of an operating room.
But today the hospital is short-staffed, and I’ve been roped into covering the intensive care ward. Different floor, different rhythm; quieter, slower, a heartbeat after the storm.
That’s when I see him.
Bed Twelve. The man I operated on two nights ago. Severe facial trauma. The kind of damage that leaves you shaking long after you’ve scrubbed out.
He looks different now under the ICU lights. Still as stone. Wrapped in white sheets that swallow the edges of him. Swelling’s gone down slightly, but his face is still a mass of bruises and sutures. Someone’s cleaned the blood from his hair. He’s almost presentable, if you squint past the damage.
Most patients fade from memory after a while. But this one stuck for some reason.
I step closer, scanning the monitors, checking his vitals. He has a good heart rate. Strong oxygenation. Holding steady. He’ll live.
The thought should be comforting, but it isn’t. Because standing here, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, I can’t shake the sense that I’m not just looking at a patient. I’m standing beside a story that hasn’t finished writing itself.
The door to the ward slides open, and two men in black suits step in, scanning the room like they’re expecting a sniper in the ceiling. Behind them walks someone who clearly doesn’t belong here. A man in his fifties, confident, expensively dressed, his presence sucking the oxygen out of the ward.
He smiles, and it’s the kind of practised smile that is both charming and disarming at the same time. “I hope we’re not interrupting.”
I blink. “Visiting hours are over,” I try to explain.
“Senator Roland Graves,” he fills in smoothly, extending his hand. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”
I shake his hand out of habit as I wonderwherehe’s heard about me. His palm is warm, lingering a second too long. I don’t like it.
He turns toward the patient, says something low and reassuring to the unconscious man before dismissing his security with a nod. When they step out, he looks back at me. He studies me for a beat too long, eyes tracing my face in a way that makes my skin itch.
I glance at the monitor, pretending to double-check the patient’s vitals even though I already know they’re stable. The numbers blink steady green. “Friend or family?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral but curious. It isn’t every day a senator shows up in the ICU.
Graves chuckles softly, the kind of laugh that’s practiced for cameras. “Family, I suppose you could say. David’s one of my campaign aides. Loyal kid. I try to keep an eye on my people.”
I nod once, letting the explanation hang between us. “He’s responding well to treatment,” I say. “He’ll make a full recovery.”
“Good to hear.” His gaze drifts from the monitors to me, weighing, assessing. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
I take a measured step back, reclaiming space he’s already trying to fill. “That’s what doctors do, senator.”
He smiles at that, and it’s the kind of smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still,” he says, “I’d like to thank you properly. Dinner, perhaps?”
My spine stiffens before my brain catches up.
“That’s absolutely not necessary,” I reply quickly, maybe too quickly. I try to keep my tone even, polite. Professional. But something about the way he’s looking at me makes my skin feel too tight, like I’m being studied instead of spoken to.
He chuckles again, low and warm. “Nonsense. You’ve done a great service to someone important to me. A meal is the least I can offer.”
“Really,” I say, forcing a smile that feels more like a shield. “It’s unnecessary.”
But his smile doesn’t fade. It lingers… measured, patient, certain. The kind of expression that tells menoisn’t a word he’s used to hearing.
He hums, studying me like a puzzle he’s already half-solved. Then that smile returns, and something about it reminds me of a lizard, all smooth skin and gnarly teeth.
“I insist. I’ll have my secretary reach out to you. I’m sure the hospital chairman won’t mind. He’s an old friend.”
My stomach drops.Kellerman.Of course.
“Really, senator,” I start, but he lifts a hand, silencing me gently.
“I insist,” he repeats, voice warm, trying for kind. But it carries the kind of power that doesn’t need to shout to be dangerous. “I’ll send a car. I’d like to learn more about what you do.”
