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.