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“Where the fuck is she?” he barks, voice like gravel.

“Sir.” My voice comes out sharp and cold, all pretense of bedside manner gone. “Get the hell out.”

He’s deaf to reason, like they all are. His eyes brush past me like I’m just another piece of the furniture. He steps forward.

I shift my stance, Carter’s training kicking in like second nature. Feet apart, weight on my heels, hands loose. Ready.

“That bitch is going to pay,” he spits, his voice venomous with rage.

He lunges, not for her, but at me, trying to bulldoze through like I’m some pushover. But I’m rooted to the spot. I lean back, let his stupid momentum do the work, and drive my palm into his nose. The crack is sharp and wet, and something in my gut loosens at the sound. The impact travels up my arm like a shock wave, grounding me in the chaos.

The fucker’s going down, and I’m still standing, every nerve alight, ready for whatever comes next.

He lets out a guttural, cornered scream. Blood pours from his nose, bright and hot, and he snatches at his face like it’ll help, leaving himself wide open. I don’t waste a second, ramming my shoulder into his chest with everything I’ve got. He crashes into the counter, metal edge biting into his hip, and the chaos of clanging supplies fills the room.

“Sit the fuck down.” My voice comes out low and rough, each word a piece of gravel. “And shut your goddamn mouth.”

My hands are shaking, heart slamming so hard I can feel it in my back teeth, but not from fear, hell no. This is the rush, that electric high of knowing you’re alive and dangerous. Of knowing you can fucking end someone if you have to.

He straightens, blood dripping from his lips and chin to splatter on the tile. The shock in his eyes twists into something darker, malevolent. Something I know too well.

“You fucking—” He lunges at me, this time with more speed, more hatred. I catch his wrist before he knows what’s hit him, twist, and slam him into the wall. His cheek mashes into the corkboard, pamphlets scattering like dead leaves.

Behind me, the instrument tray clatters. My eyes flick down, spotting the glint of steel—the speculum. Sterile, heavy, perfect.

I don’t think. Thinking is a luxury you lose after being taken. My hand closes around the cold metal. He’s peeling himself off the wall, blood smeared across his face like war paint, and I swing.

The steel connects with his jaw, a brutal, satisfying crack that travels up my arm. His head snaps sideways, something breaking inside that mouth of his. His scream bounces off the walls, high and broken, nothing like the voice he had five seconds ago.

In this world, you don’t think. You act. You survive.

And right now, I’m fucking surviving.

He staggers. I hit him again. The speculum cracks against his cheekbone, and the sound is wetter now, more vicious. Blood sprays in a fine mist across the tile.

I’ve never done this before, never hit anyone. But my body remembers Carter’s rhythm: strike, recover, strike again. The steel feels like part of me, cold and sure.

He drops to one knee, clutching his face. Blood runs between his fingers, pooling below. His eyes widen, not with rage but something else like recognition. He’s really seeing me.

“You’re leaving,” I say, my voice foreign, belonging to someone dangerous. “You’ll walk out that door and never come near her again.”

He makes a sound, part sob, part snarl, and lunges from his knee. His hand shoots for my throat, but I move before I even think. I drive the speculum forward, not swinging but punching it straight into his gaping mouth.

The curved bills catch on his teeth, and I shove harder until metal grinds against enamel. The handle smacks his front teeth with a sickening crunch. His eyes bulge as he grabs my wrist to try and yank the instrument out, but I’m already twisting, pressing, using my weight to keep it lodged there.

He gags, chokes. Blood and saliva foam around the steel, trailing down his chin in thick streams. His fingers claw at my hand, nails breaking my skin, but I can’t loosen my grip. Something inside me has snapped, the way a sterile package tears open—clean, irreversible, no putting it back. The woman wielding this speculum isn’t the same one who once counted ceiling tiles while evidence was collected from her body. She’s something else.

“I said,” I repeat, my voice steady even as my arms tremble, “you’re going to leave.” His gagging worsens, face turning a grotesque shade of red as his eyes roll, his body jerking, desperate for air. I hold on for just another moment, letting him feel what it’s like to have something forced into him, then yank it free.

He collapses, coughing, retching, blood splattering the floor. The speculum clangs to the tile beside him, smeared with red, one of its bills bent. Behind me, my patient is silent. I glance back. She’s pressed against the wall, hospital gown twisted around her knees, watching me with wide, bright eyes. Not fear. Something closer to awe.

The door bursts open again. Security is here, two big guys moving fast. They don’t need to do much. He’s already slumped, hand braced on the wall, blood dripping from his chin. I step back, breathless, and let them take him.

“You’re dead,” he spits, eyes cutting through the guards, fixating on his wife against the far wall. “Both of you.”

I ignore him, turning to her instead. She’s trembling visibly from across the room—her shoulders, her hands, the thin hospital gown, all shaking.

But she’s standing tall, back against the wall, chin lifted, watching me with a look I’ve seen before, on the other side of this power struggle. It’s the look patients give when they realize someone’s on their side.