The air in the lobby of Riverbend General Hospital was sterile, smelling of industrial bleach and the faint, copper tang of blood. Derek Faulkner stood before the information desk, his frame trembling with a suppressed, volcanic energy. He had held this fury back for two days—the weight of his daughter’s suffering, the cruelty of the school, and the absolute failure of the society he had spent his life defending.
"You miserable cow!" Derek’s voice didn't just carry; it vibrated through the floorboards, a low-frequency rumble of pure, unadulterated wrath. "In the face of a dying child, what right do you have to talk to me about billing? What right do you have to be angry?"
His eyes were bloodshot, glowing with a terrifying intensity. He had spent eight years at the Northern Front, acting
