Johnson's mouth is still shaping an excuse when Marcus's fist finds it.
The sound is meat and metal. Johnson crashes into the rolling tray. Gauze, a capped syringe, a paper packet of alcohol pads go skittering.
“Security—" the manager gasps.
“Don't," Marcus says without looking. The word is quiet, lethal. “Not yet."
Johnson clutches his lip. “You're insane—"
“Correct," Marcus says. “And lucid." He lifts his phone, turns the screen toward them. “Screenshots. Timestamps. 'Make it look worse.' Shall I read the emojis?"
Vivian hisses, “Marcus—"
“Don't," he repeats.
Aaron steps in the doorway, not blocking, not retreating. “Hospital counsel is on their way," he says to the room at large. “Risk management too."
The charge nurse stands like a hinge between chaos and protocol. “Dr. Johnso
