In the sterile, high-pressure environment of the Kingston Memorial Hospital, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the heavy, invisible weight of systemic corruption. Dr. Gabriel Lawson stood near the nursing station, her brows furrowed in a mask of genuine concern. She had witnessed the earlier altercation where the hospital staff had treated Samuel Livingston with such clinical coldness, and she knew the administrative machinery of this place was as ruthless as any boardroom.
“Liam, look, I know what happened, and I know how you feel,” Gabriel said, her voice dropping to a low, urgent whisper that carried the weight of her professional anxiety. “But you need to listen to me. This isn't Manhattan, and it’s certainly not Port Haven. This is Kingston. You should go over
