Blood on the linoleum used to mean failure. Now, it just means it's Tuesday. You think a black belt makes you a weapon. You think daddy's money buys immunity from the reaper? I've seen kids in the desert with rust bucket rifles who were twice the threat of the entitled brat standing in my VIP ward demanding a brawl because his father's heart was finally giving out. He wanted to break something to feel in control. He didn't know I used to break things for a living.
The seventh floor of Westlake Memorial did not smell like a hospital. That was by design. Down on the second floor where the city brought its gunshot wounds and its overdoses, the air hung thick with bleach, stale sweat, and the sharp coppery tang of desperation. Down there, the linoleum was scuffed yellow and the fluorescent lights buzzed with a headache-inducing frequency. But the seventh floor was the executive wing. Here, the floors were laid with sound-dampening mahogany laminate. The lighting was recessed and warm. The air smelled faintly of lavender and high-grade ionized filtration. It was a place designed to make dying feel like a luxury hotel stay.
Dougal Marshall hated the lavender. It didn't mask the scent of death. It only confused it. Dougal adjusted the collar of his scrubs, the faded blue cotton soft against the raised jagged scar running across his collarbone. He was 42 years old, built like a cinder block with eyes the color of old concrete, and a demeanor that registered just below a resting pulse. He moved down the hallway with a quiet, deliberate grace that belied his mass. He didn't walk, he glided, rolling his weight from heel to toe, a habit drilled into his nervous system a lifetime ago in places where a heavy footfall meant a sudden, violent end. Now, his biggest threat was a malfunctioning IV pump. He preferred it this way.