Lines of Obsession

Digital Shackle

Medville Hospital – Multiple Wards / Stairwells

POV: Eliana Woods

The pager clipped to the waistband of Eliana’s trousers felt less like a tool and more like a parasite. It didn't just beep; it vibrated against her hip bone with a jagged, insistent urgency that seemed to sync with the throbbing in her temples.

04:15 PM. Ward 6. Room 612. Post-op fever.

Eliana didn't take the elevator. In the hierarchy of Medville, elevators were for patients and the gods of surgery like Alistair Vance. Interns took the stairs. She pushed through the heavy fire doors, her sneakers squeaking against the concrete steps as she took them two at a time. Her five-foot-nine frame, usually carried with the grace of a woman who knew she was being watched, was now hunched forward, driven by pure adrenaline and the fear of Dr. Aris’s wrath.

"Woods! Where are the labs for 402?" a nurse shouted as Eliana burst onto the sixth floor.

"On the chart, Brenda! I uploaded them ten minutes ago!" Eliana called back, not slowing her pace.

04:18 PM. Ward 3. Room 305. Resident needs a blood draw. Hard stick.

She reached Room 612, her chest heaving. The patient, a woman who had undergone a routine gallbladder removal, was flushed and shivering. Eliana moved with the efficiency she had spent years honing, her genius-level mind cataloging symptoms before she even touched the patient’s skin.

"It’s okay, Mrs. Gable. Just a little reaction. We’re going to get you some Tylenol and a cooling blanket," she said, her voice soft and melodic—the social butterfly giving way to the healer. She adjusted the IV drip, her fingers steady despite the fact that she hadn't eaten since the disastrous tuna at lunch.

The pager shrieked again.

04:25 PM. ICU. Alistair Vance. Status update.

Eliana stared at the small liquid-crystal display. The name Vance sent a different kind of jolt through her—one that wasn't tied to medical urgency. After the cold-blooded performance he’d given at lunch, she wasn't sure if she wanted to punch him or study him.

"Check the vitals every twenty minutes," she told the floor nurse, already backing out of the room. "If the temp hits 39, call me."

She hit the stairwell again, descending toward the ICU. The air in the intensive care unit was different—thicker, filtered through a dozen humming machines, and perpetually dim. She found Alistair standing at the central nursing station. He had shed his charcoal suit jacket, his white sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. He was leaning over a computer monitor, his six-foot-five frame casting a shadow over the entire desk.

"You took seven minutes, Dr. Woods," he said, not looking up. His British accent was a low rasp in the quiet of the unit. "The bypass patient in 4B has a trending intracranial pressure of 15. Why wasn't I notified when it hit 12?"

"Because I was in the ER suturing a laceration for Dr. Aris while simultaneously managing three post-ops on the sixth floor, Chief," Eliana countered, stepping into his space. She refused to be intimidated by his height or the New York edge in his voice. "The pressure stabilized at 12 for forty minutes. I prioritized the active bleeder."

Alistair finally turned. He looked exhausted, the hazel of his eyes bloodshot around the edges, but the intensity was undiminished. He looked her up and down—taking in the stray hair escaping her ponytail and the smudge of ink on her cheek.

"Bylaw 3.2: The Chief’s patients take precedence over general trauma unless otherwise directed," he murmured, stepping closer. He was so tall she had to tilt her head back, exposing the line of her throat. "In this hospital, your priority is me. Do you understand that, Eliana?"

"I understand that you like to hear yourself quote rules you break whenever it suits you," she whispered back, the "social butterfly" showing her wings. "The patient in 4B is stable. I checked the telemetry from the hallway. You paged me because you wanted to see if I’d drop everything for you."

"I paged you because the post-op notes were incomplete," he lied, his voice smooth as silk. "Finish them. Then go to the cafeteria and eat something. You look like you’re about to faint on my sterile floor, and I don't have time to fill out the incident report."

"I’m fine," she snapped, though her stomach chose that exact moment to let out a traitorous growl.

Alistair reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, foil-wrapped protein bar. He didn't hand it to her; he dropped it onto the chart she was holding.

"That wasn't a suggestion, intern. It was an order. Eat. Then meet me in the lounge for evening rounds. If you’re late, I’ll have you rewriting the surgical archives until sunrise."

He walked away before she could respond, his long strides eating up the distance of the hallway. Eliana stared at the protein bar, then at his retreating back.

He’s a monster, she thought, unwrapping the bar with trembling fingers. A handsome, arrogant, British monster who apparently knows exactly how long I can go without food.

She took a bite, the sugar hitting her system like a lightning bolt. She didn't have time to sit. The pager on her hip began to vibrate again.

04:45 PM. Ward 2. Dr. Aris. Discharge papers.

Eliana sighed, tucked the rest of the bar into her scrub pocket, and headed back to the stairs. Vancouver was darkening outside the windows, the rain turning into a heavy mist that clung to the glass. She felt like she was running a marathon in a maze, but every time she thought about stopping, the image of Alistair’s hazel eyes surfaced in her mind.

She reached the second floor, her legs burning. Sarah Miller was there, leaning against a nursing station with a look of pure defeat.

"Tell me it gets better," Sarah groaned, handing a stack of files to a clerk. "I’ve been on my feet for twelve hours and I’ve spent ten of them looking for a missing gallbladder specimen."

"It doesn't get better," Eliana said, offering a tired smile. "We just get faster."

"I saw you with Vance in the ICU," Sarah whispered, her eyes flickering with curiosity. "He looked like he was about to tear your head off. Or kiss you. It’s hard to tell with that New York scowl he wears."

Eliana felt a flush that had nothing to do with the stairwell. "He was lecturing me on bylaws. Again. Trust me, Sarah, the only thing Alistair Vance wants to kiss is a successful surgical outcome."

"Maybe," Sarah mused. "But he doesn't give protein bars to the rest of us. I saw that, too."

Eliana froze, her hand instinctively covering the pocket where the wrapper was hidden. "It was a clinical intervention to prevent a fainting spell. Very professional."

"Right," Mark Williams muttered as he joined them, looking like he’d been through a war zone. "And I’m the next Prime Minister. Come on, we’ve got thirty minutes to chart before the evening m******e starts."

The three of them moved in a pack toward the computers, a small island of solidarity in the sea of Medville’s bureaucracy. Eliana’s pager remained silent for exactly four minutes—the longest peace she’d had all day. She used the time to think about the "fight" her father wanted. He wanted her to dominate the room.

But as she looked at her tired friends and remembered the weight of Alistair’s gaze, she realized the real fight wasn't for dominance. It was for survival.

05:15 PM. All Interns. Lecture Hall B. Chief Vance presiding.

"Here we go," Mark sighed.

Eliana straightened her shoulders, smoothed her hair, and prepared to face the man who was quickly becoming the center of her universe, whether she liked it or not.