CHAPTER THREE
1773 Words
Early the next morning, Nyra was up by six, running on two hours of sleep and willpower alone.
Her body moved through her routine on autopilot—shower, scrubs, coffee that tasted like burnt regret.
She ate dry toast and washed it down with orange juice that stung her throat, too acidic, but she didn't care. She needed the sugar.
She needed to feel something other than the hollow thrum of dread that had settled behind her ribs.
She checked on her patient. Still out. His chest rose and fell in shallow waves, and for a moment she just stood there, watching a stranger breathe in her living room. The white couch was ruined.
She would have to replace it, or maybe just throw a blanket over the stain and pretend it wasn't there. She was good at that—pretending.
She dressed his wounds again, her fingers steady even as her mind screamed at her. Gunshot. No police. No hospital. Every suture was a secret she was stitching into her own skin. She left him toast and a glass of water on the coffee table, a note scribbled on a prescription pad: Don't bleed on anything else.
She didn't take her car. The back seat still smelled of the sharp metallic tang of copper and bad decisions.
Instead, she called an Uber, making a mental note to send the car for detailing. Maybe they'd ask questions about the blood. Maybe she'd have to lie. She was getting good at that too.
The hospital didn't take long to reach, but the moment she stepped into the clinic, she felt it, the weight of eyes sliding over her and snapping away, whispers dying behind cupped hands.
Something was wrong. Something had always been wrong, she realized, but she'd been too stupid, too trusting, too busy to notice the rot.
Her phone buzzed. The email from the Council sat in her inbox like a bomb with the pin already pulled: Meeting at 12:00 PM. Boardroom 4. Attendance mandatory.
She found Morrison by the supply closet, the head nurse's face pinched with something that looked almost like pity. Almost.
"Tell me," Nyra said, not bothering with pleasantries.
Morrison's eyes darted down the hall. She shifted her weight, her sneakers squeaking against the marble.
"Adrian told everyone. This morning. In the break room, like he was announcing a new protocol." Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"He said you cheated. On him. And he said—" She stopped, chewing her lip.
"Said what?"
"That you had something to do with the incident. Three years ago. The Moretti ‘s surgery."
The color drained from Nyra's face so fast she felt dizzy. She gripped the doorframe. "That's a lie. That's a f*****g lie."
"I know." But Morrison was already backing away, her hands raised in surrender.
"I have to go. I'm sorry, Nyra. I really am."
She was gone before Nyra could remind her that they'd been friends, that they'd shared a bottle of tequila after that very surgery, that Morrison had been there when Nyra had tried to save that kid and failed.
Failed.
The word echoed. She could already imagine the meeting—the long table, the faces she'd respected once, now twisted into masks of judgment.
Tears threatened, hot and humiliating, but she bit them back.
She would not give them the satisfaction.
She would not give Adrian the satisfaction.
The morning passed in a blur of forced normalcy.
She checked on O'Brien's kid, the one who refused his medication, and didn't let herself think about the name.
She made sure the teenage girl in Room 304 was stable.
She assisted on three minor surgeries, her hands moving with mechanical precision while her mind circled the same dark drain.
By eleven-forty-five, her scrubs felt too tight, her skin too small.
She ran into Elena by the elevators. Adrian's other woman, or her now ex best friend.
Nyra had probably been the other woman in her own relationship without knowing it.
Elena leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, that familiar smirk playing at her lips.
"Summoned by the board." Elena clicked her tongue. "Tough luck."
She winked. Actually winked, like they were sharing a joke, like she knew something Nyra didn't.
And suddenly, Nyra did know.
Not only were they cheating—not only had Adrian betrayed her with her colleague, her bestfriend—but they were collaborating.
They were trying to bury her. The incident three years ago, the Moretti surgery, the one that had kept her awake for months afterward... they were going to pin it on her. Frame her for negligence she hadn't committed.
It was unbelievable. It was insane.
It was her reality.
*****
The boardroom smelled of lemon disinfectant and old grudges. Twelve chairs. Twelve faces she recognized, some she'd respected, some she'd operated beside.
Dr. Hale, the Chief of Surgery, sat at the head of the table, his expression carefully neutral.
Beside him, Adrian. Of course Adrian was there. He wore his best tie, the one she'd bought him for his birthday.
"Dr. Nightbane." Hale gestured to the single chair at the opposite end. "Please. Sit."
She didn't. Not yet. "I'd like to know what this is about."
"You'll have your chance to speak." Hale's voice was gentle, which somehow made it worse.
"But first, we need to address some serious allegations that have come to our attention."
Adrian leaned forward, his hands folded on the table like a man at prayer.
"Three years ago, March 14th. The O'Brien pediatric case. You were the first-year surgical resident, assisting Dr. Reeves."
"I remember," Nyra said, her voice steady even as her pulse hammered.
"The patient had a ruptured appendix. Complications during anesthesia. We lost him."
"We lost him," Adrian repeated, "because the anesthetic dosage was incorrect. Fatally incorrect. And the pharmacy logs from that day show your credentials were used to access the medication."
Nyra's breath caught. "That's not— I didn't—"
"Your login, Dr. Nightbane. Your badge. The dosage was triple what it should have been." Adrian's voice dripped with manufactured sorrow.
"And now we learn you've been... unstable. Emotionally. The cheating on your boards, the erratic behavior, the affair with a married attending—"
"You had an affair!" The words tore out of her, too loud, too desperate. She saw Hale flinch.
She saw the board members exchange glances. She was playing into their hands, she knew she was, but the rage was white-hot and blinding.
"Adrian, tell them. Tell them this is revenge because I found out about Elena. Tell them you're lying."
Adrian only shook his head, slow and mournful.
"I wish that were true. I wish I could help you. But the evidence speaks for itself."
"Dr. Nightbane." Hale cut in, his voice heavy.
"Given the severity of these allegations, the Council has voted to suspend your medical license pending a full investigation. Effective immediately. You are to surrender your badge and your credentials before leaving the premises."
The words didn't land at first. They floated in the air, meaningless sounds. Then they crushed her.
Suspended.
Her license. Her identity. The only thing she'd ever been good at, the only thing that had made her father's eyes light up with pride, the only thing that had justified every sacrifice, every lonely night, every moment she'd chosen the hospital over a life.
Gone.
She didn't remember standing. She didn't remember walking out. One moment she was in the boardroom, Adrian's voice still ringing in her ears, and the next she was in the hallway, her back against the concrete wall, her badge clutched in her hand so hard the edges cut into her palm.
She thought of calling her father. The phone was already in her hand—when had she pulled it out?
She stared at his name, Dad, the photo from her graduation day smiling up at her. She couldn't. She couldn't tell him that everything she'd worked for, everything they'd worked for, was being destroyed by the man she'd almost married.
She let the call ring once, then hung up.
Life was unfair. She'd known that since she was twelve and her mother died. She'd known it when she was the only Black woman in her residency class, when she'd had to be twice as good to get half as far. She'd known it.
But knowing didn't stop the hurt.
***
By the end of her shift—her last shift, she realized with a sick lurch—she couldn't face Uber, she needed to breathe, to think, so she walked. The city air was cold against her face, and she let it burn, let it wake her up from the numbness that had settled over her like a veil.
She didn't notice him at first.
It was the rhythm that was wrong. Her footsteps, then an echo, too precise, too persistent. She turned once, casually, and saw him—a man in black, hood up, hands in his pockets, keeping his distance but never falling back. She turned again at the next corner. He was still there.
Her apartment complex loomed ahead, its fluorescent lobby lights buzzing like dragonfly in the night.
She quickened her pace. The elevator doors were open, thank God, and she slipped inside, punching her floor number with a shaking finger.
He followed her in.
Two teenagers squeezed in after, laughing about something, loud and oblivious. Nyra pressed herself against the mirrored wall, her phone clutched in her hand. She pretended to dial, holding it to her ear, her heart hammering so hard she was sure he could hear it.
Ring. Ring. Please pick up, imaginary person. Please save me.
The teenagers got off on four. The man in black didn't move.
Her floor. Five. The doors slid open with a cheerful ding that felt like mockery.
She walked fast. Not running—running meant panic, meant prey, it meant she knew.
But her fingers fumbled at her door, the keypad blurring, and she typed the code wrong once, twice, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
Third time. The lock clicked green.
She shoved inside, slammed the door, threw the deadbolt.
A shadow passed her peephole. Stopped. She held her breath, her back pressed against the wood, her phone still frozen at her ear.
Then—footsteps. Fading. Gone.
She slid to the floor, her legs giving out beneath her, and stared at the stranger bleeding on her couch, and laughed. Laughed until it turned into something else, something broken and wet and ugly.
At least he wasn't trying to kill her.
She hoped.
- Writer
