Claimed by the Alpha’s Fortune

Chapter Eight: The Under-City

The first patient came at dawn.

Ella was still half-asleep, curled in her corner with a blanket pulled over her head, when she heard Mira's voice: "Someone's here."

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. The clinic was dim, lit only by the dying embers of last night's fire. A figure stood in the doorway—a wolf, male, middle-aged, clutching his arm. Blood dripped between his fingers, dark and thick.

"Please," he said. "I heard there was a healer."

Ella was on her feet before she knew what she was doing. "Sit. Let me see."

The wound was deep—a gash across the forearm, probably from broken glass. The bleeding was steady but not arterial. Ella grabbed gauze and pressure bandages from the shelf, her hands moving automatically.

The system pinged:

**Patient scan complete.**

**Injury: Laceration, moderate. No silver contamination. No infection detected.**

**Recommended treatment: Clean, suture, bandage.**

**Skill required: Basic Wound Debridement (Level 2) — sufficient.**

Ella worked quickly. The wolf winced when she poured antiseptic into the wound, but he didn't cry out. He just watched her with wary eyes, the way all wolves watched strangers in the Under-City.

"Where'd you learn to do this?" he asked.

"School," Ella said. "And practice."

"Practice on who?"

"Whoever needs it."

The wolf was silent for a moment. Then he said, "You're the one who saved Lily."

Ella didn't look up. "Word travels fast."

"In the Under-City, word is all we have." He flexed his fingers as she tied off the last suture. "I'm Gray. I run the supply network—food, mostly. What little we have."

Ella finished bandaging his arm. "You should keep this clean. Change the bandage twice a day. If it gets red or hot, come back immediately."

Gray nodded. "What do I owe you?"

Ella hesitated. The system hadn't mentioned payment. She hadn't even thought about it. "Whatever you can spare."

Gray reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins—mostly nickels and dimes, with a few quarters mixed in. He counted out $4.75 and set it on the examination table.

"It's not much," he said.

"It's enough."

Gray left. Ella stared at the coins. $4.75. It wasn't nothing. It was something. It was a start.

The system pinged:

**Payment received: $4.75**

**Clinic revenue: $4.75 (lifetime)**

**Recommendation: Establish standard fee structure for sustainability.**

Ella shook her head. Standard fee structure. In the Under-City. Where people survived on pocket change and stolen bread.

She'd figure it out later.

---

The second patient came an hour later.

A woman, this time, with a child on her hip. The child was coughing—a wet, rattling sound that made Ella's chest tighten.

"Pneumonia," the system diagnosed. "Advanced. Requires antibiotics."

Ella had antibiotics. The ones she'd stolen from the Silver Creek clinic. She'd been saving them for an emergency.

This was an emergency.

She measured out the dose, showed the woman how to administer it. "Twice a day for seven days. If she doesn't improve by day three, bring her back."

The woman's eyes were wet. "Thank you. Thank you."

She pressed a crumpled bill into Ella's hand—a five-dollar note, worn soft from folding. Then she was gone, child still coughing, footsteps fading into the tunnel.

Ella looked at the bill. Five dollars.

She tucked it into the jar she'd designated as the clinic's "fund." The jar was empty except for Gray's coins and this bill. $9.75 total.

Not enough to buy more antibiotics. Not enough to pay for electricity or heat or the other things a real clinic needed.

But enough to keep going. For now.

---

By noon, Ella had treated six patients.

A sprained ankle. An infected tooth. A deep bruise that might have been a cracked rib. A wolf with a fever she couldn't diagnose. A child with a rash. An old man who just wanted someone to talk to.

Each one paid something—a few coins, a dollar bill, once a half-eaten bag of apples that Dent accepted with a grunt of approval.

The jar now held $23.50.

Ella sat on her blankets, eating one of the apples, and stared at the system interface.

**Clinic revenue: $23.50**

**Funds remaining: $1,973.50 (personal) + $23.50 (clinic)**

**Next task: Clinic Upgrade - Phase 2 (13 days remaining)**

She needed a supply chain. Medications. Bandages. Antiseptic. Things that cost money—more money than she had.

She could go back to the salvage dealer. See if he had medical supplies. But that would cost cash, and she needed to save her cash for bigger things.

She could negotiate with pack clinics. Mira had mentioned that option. But packs didn't trust Under-City wolves. They'd see her as a thief, a beggar, a nobody.

Or she could find another way.

The system pinged:

**New option detected: Human pharmacy partnership.**

**Several human pharmacies in the city's low-income areas donate expired or soon-to-expire medications to community clinics. Your clinic qualifies as a community clinic.**

**Recommendation: Visit local pharmacies and request donations.**

Ella read the words twice. Donations. Free medications.

It was worth a shot.

---

She left the clinic in the afternoon, after the flow of patients slowed.

Mira loaned her a backpack—sturdy, with reinforced straps. "For carrying supplies," she said. "If you find any."

Ella walked to the surface, blinking in the sunlight. The city was gray and busy, people rushing past without looking at her. She was used to that. Invisibility was her superpower.

The first pharmacy was a chain store on the corner of 5th and Main. Ella pushed through the glass doors and walked to the prescription counter.

"I'd like to speak to the pharmacist," she said.

The technician—a young woman with pink hair and a nose ring—looked her up and down. "Are you picking up a prescription?"

"No. I'm here about donations."

"Donations?"

"I run a clinic. For people who can't afford medication. I was hoping you might have expired or soon-to-be-expired drugs you could spare."

The technician's expression softened. "Hold on. I'll get the pharmacist."

The pharmacist was an older man with kind eyes and tired hands. He listened to Ella's request, then led her to a shelf in the back.

"These are the drugs we're required to destroy," he said, gesturing at a box of bottles and blister packs. "Most are still effective past their expiration dates—especially the pills. The liquids, not so much. But you're welcome to take what you need."

Ella's heart raced. She knelt and began sorting through the box.

**System scan in progress...**

**Amoxicillin (expired 3 months ago): 12 courses. Effectiveness: 85%.**

**Ibuprofen (expired 1 month ago): 30 tablets. Effectiveness: 95%.**

**Antiseptic solution (expired 2 weeks ago): 4 bottles. Effectiveness: 90%.**

**Inhaler (expires next week): 1. Effectiveness: 100%.**

She filled her backpack with as much as it could carry. The pharmacist helped her, packing the medications carefully to prevent breakage.

"Thank you," Ella said. "Thank you so much."

The pharmacist smiled. "You're doing good work. Keep it up."

---

Ella visited three more pharmacies that afternoon.

Each one gave her something—antibiotics, painkillers, antiseptics, even a box of surgical gloves that had been sitting in a storage room for years. By the time she returned to the Under-City, her backpack was bulging and her shoulders ached.

Mira met her at the clinic door. "What's all this?"

"Medicine," Ella said, dropping the backpack on the examination table. "Free medicine."

She unloaded the supplies, sorting them onto the shelves. Antibiotics here. Painkillers there. Antiseptics on the top shelf, out of reach of children.

The system pinged:

**Supply chain established (partial).**

**Clinic Upgrade - Phase 2 progress: 40%.**

**Reward pending: $800 + Skill Unlock: Supply Chain Management (upon completion).**

Mira watched her work. "You're not like anyone I've ever met."

"I'm not sure that's a compliment."

"It's not an insult." Mira picked up a bottle of amoxicillin, examined the label. "You actually care. About these people. About this place."

"Someone has to."

"But why you?"

Ella stopped sorting. She looked around the clinic—the dirt floor, the crumbling walls, the patients who had come to her with nothing but hope and pocket change.

"Because I know what it's like," she said, "to have no one."

Mira was silent for a long moment. Then she said, "You're a good person, Ella Morris. Don't let this place change that."

Ella smiled—a real smile, the first one in days. "I won't."

---

That night, Lily sat up for the first time.

Ella was checking her vitals when the girl pushed herself upright, swaying but steady. Her color was better. Her eyes were clear.

"I feel like I've been hit by a truck," Lily said.

"That's normal," Ella said. "You almost died."

Lily looked around the clinic—the shelves of medicine, the examination table, the other patients sleeping on cots. "This is where you work?"

"This is where I live."

"Doesn't look like much."

"It's not." Ella smiled. "But it's mine."

Lily reached out and took her hand. "Thank you. For saving me. For staying."

Ella squeezed back. "Get some rest. You have a long recovery ahead."

Lily nodded and lay back down. Within minutes, she was asleep.

Ella sat beside her, watching the rise and fall of her chest. The fire crackled. The shadows danced.

For the first time in her life, she felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.