Gibson glared at him. The man's eyes were roomy and yellowed, but there was still a spark of vicious intelligence behind them. He was a man who had spent 40 years breaking competitors, hostile takeovers, liquidating assets, firing thousands without a second thought. He was used to people shrinking from his gaze. Dougal just looked back, his expression neutral, his posture relaxed but anchored. "You're an odd one, Marshall," Gibson wheezed, his hand trembling as he finally reached for the cup, failing to grasp it. Dougal calmly moved it a half inch closer, letting Gibson's fingers find the plastic on their own. "The others flutter. They whisper. They look at me like I'm already a corpse. You just look at me like I'm a piece of furniture." "I look at you like you're a patient," Dougal said. He checked the catheter bag at the foot of the bed, noting the output and the dark, concentrated color. Kidneys were shutting down. It wouldn't be long now. "My job is to keep you comfortable, not to stroke your ego, and not to mourn you." Gibson let out a dry, hacking laugh that turned into a wet cough. Dougal stepped forward instantly, expertly supporting the man's shoulders, handing him a tissue, waiting until the spasm passed. When Gibson fell back against the pillows, he was panting, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. "I like you, Marshall." Gibson whispered, his eyes closing again. "You don't care about my money." "I care about your blood pressure." Dougal said, noting the drop on the monitor. "Try to rest."
Dougal retreated to the small alcove near the door, settling into the charting chair. He opened the electronic medical record, but his eyes drifted to the window. The city was quiet. He thought about the men he had served with, the ones who came back, and the ones who didn't. He had chosen nursing when he got out because he was tired of dismantling human bodies. He wanted to learn how they were put back together, how they were maintained, how they eventually wound down. It was a penance, in a way, a counterbalance to a ledger written in red. He didn't harbor any grand illusions about saving the world anymore. He just wanted to make the immediate square foot around him slightly less miserable.
The quiet of the room was suddenly broken by the heavy thud of the suite door swinging open, striking the rubber stopper on the wall with unnecessary force. Dougal didn't jump. His heart rate didn't elevate, but his eyes snapped from the window to the doorway, scanning, assessing, categorizing the threat before his conscious mind even registered a name. Crofton Gibson stepped into the room, and the air pressure seemed to change. He was 28, built like a Greek statue carved out of deeply insecure marble. He stood 6'2", weighing in at a lean, heavily muscled 200 lb. He wore a tight black compression shirt under an unzipped designer hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with veins and a tribal tattoo wrapping around his left bicep. The logo on his gym bag slung aggressively over one shoulder belonged to an elite, highly expensive mixed martial arts academy downtown. Crofton moved with a forced swagger, his shoulders rolled forward, his chin tucked. It was the walk of a man desperate to project danger.
Dougal read him in an instant. The heavy asymmetrical footfalls. He favored his right leg, maybe a slight meniscus tear. The way his eyes darted around the room, not taking in details, but looking for an audience. The clenched jaw. The smell of expensive cologne barely masking the sour tang of pre-workout powder and stale sweat. He wasn't a wolf. He was a very loud, very scared dog trying to convince everyone he had teeth. "Why is it so dark in here?" Crofton demanded, his voice a booming baritone that shattered the carefully maintained peace of the VIP suite. He didn't wait for an answer, dropping his heavy gym bag onto the expensive leather sofa with a loud thud, then reaching for the wall panel to flood the room with glaring overhead light. On the bed, Raphael Gibson groaned, throwing a frail arm over his eyes. "Turn that off, Crofton." he croaked. "You need to wake up, Dad. It's depressing as hell in here." Crofton said, pacing over. He didn't look at Dougal. He acted as if the nurse were part of the medical equipment. "I just finished a 3-hour session rolling with the black belts. Tapped out two guys who fight amateur circuit. I'm starving. Where's the night staff? We pay enough for this place, they should have a damn buffet waiting." "Your father was resting, Mr. Gibson." Dougal said quietly from the corner.
Crofton stopped. He pivoted slowly, as if just realizing someone else was in the room. He looked Dougal up and down, his eyes lingering on the faded scrubs, the unassuming posture, the slight graying at Dougal's temples. Crofton's upper lip curled into a sneer. "Who the hell are you?" Crofton asked. "Where's the little blonde girl? Chloe?" "Chloe is on meal break." Dougal replied, his voice remaining level, pitched at a frequency designed not to escalate. "I'm Dougal. I'm the primary on this floor tonight." "Well, Dougal." Crofton said, stepping closer, intentionally invading Dougal's personal space. It was a classic intimidation tactic taught in high schools and bar rooms across the world. "My dad needs better care than sleeping in the dark, and I need a coffee, black. Go get it." Dougal remained seated. He met Crofton's gaze. There was no defiance in Dougal's eyes, no anger, just a terrifying, bottomless calm. It was the look of a man who had stared through the optical sight of a sniper rifle for 72 hours straight. "There's a coffee machine at the nurses' station down the hall." Dougal said reasonably. "Help yourself. I need to monitor your father's vitals."
Crofton's face flushed. The veins in his neck popped. He was entirely unaccustomed to the word no, especially from someone he viewed as the hired help. He leaned in, planting his hands on his hips, spreading his feet into a fighting stance. "Listen to me, you glorified bedpan cleaner." Crofton said, his breath hot and smelling of artificial cherry energy drink. "Do you know who my father is? Do you know who I am? I can have your job with one phone call. I can have you blacklisted from every hospital in this state." From the bed, Raphael coughed weakly. "Leave him be, Crofton. He's doing his job, something you know nothing about." The words hit Crofton like a physical blow. The anger that had been directed at Dougal suddenly fractured, revealing the deep jagged fissures of a toxic father-son relationship. Crofton's chest heaved. He looked at his dying father, the patriarch who had never thought he was good enough, strong enough, or smart enough to take over the empire. Crofton had spent his life lifting weights, learning how to choke men unconscious, buying expensive cars, all trying to build an armor against his father's relentless disappointment. And now the old man was dying, and the armor was utterly useless. Crofton couldn't fight pancreatic cancer. He couldn't put it in a triangle choke. He was powerless, and the powerlessness was driving him insane.