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.