Hospitals always tried too hard to look clean.

Too much white. Too much light. Too many lies.

The stink of antiseptic never masked the copper tang underneath. Something old, baked into the tile.

Callan sat hunched on the gurney in Exam Room 4.

Gauze packed his side where the blade had gone in. Stitches tight. Ribs screaming. The morphine hadn’t kicked in, or it had and wasn’t enough.

Didn’t matter.

He watched the wall clock tick. Listened to the soft beeping down the hall.

The job had gone sideways. Not fatally—but almost.

He was supposed to disappear here. Drift in like a ghost, bleed quietly, vanish before the questions started.

He hadn’t planned on her.

The nurse. Mid-twenties, maybe younger. Dark braid. Steady hands.

She’d looked at him like he wasn’t a monster.

“Where are you from?” she’d asked, pressing gauze to his side.

“Out west,” he’d lied.

She hadn’t pushed. Just nodded. Kept working.

Something about her stuck. Not her face. Not even her voice. Just… the way she stayed calm when he didn’t.

Like the girl in Chicago. Long time ago. Blonde. Sharp wit. Gentle hands.

She bled out before he could say sorry.

Back then, he still thought saying sorry mattered.

A scream split the hallway.

Callan sat up too fast. Pain punched through his ribs. He braced on the gurney, teeth clenched.

Another scream. Then a crash. Shouting.

Code Blue.

Gunman. Wrong place, wrong day.

Not his problem.

His fingers twitched.

He stood. Slowly. Every nerve fired across his side like barbed wire pulled tight.

The right move was to leave. Drift back out the way he came. Vanish.

He didn’t.

He pulled back the curtain and stepped into the hall.

Fluorescents flickered overhead. The hallway stretched long and quiet, like it was holding its breath.

Then—

“Get on the floor!”

A man’s voice. Cracked and fraying.

A nurse sobbing.

Callan rounded the corner.

Gunman—mid-thirties, sweat bleeding through his shirt, pistol raised with both hands like he wasn’t sure how to hold it.

Two nurses backed into a supply alcove.

She was one of them. The braid. The calm eyes. Not calm now.

Callan moved forward, slow and deliberate. Barefoot on tile. Hands slightly raised.

“Back the hell up!” the man barked, voice shrill, ragged. “I said back off!”

Callan’s tone didn’t change. “You don’t want to do this.”

“I’ll shoot. I will. Don’t think I won’t.”

“You’re not here to kill anyone.”

The man blinked. Confused. “What?”

“You’re here because no one’s ever looked at you long enough to remember your name.”

The gun twitched. His hands shook.

Callan took another step. The stitches pulled. His knees almost buckled. He didn’t stop.

“Put it down,” he said softly. “This isn’t how you get seen.”

The man’s eyes flashed to the nurse.

That was enough.

Callan struck. Grabbed the IV pole. Swung. Steel cracked bone. The gun flew. They hit the floor hard.

The man thrashed—sloppy. Desperate.

Callan moved on instinct. Elbow. Knee. Forearm to throat. He didn’t let him breathe. Didn’t let him reset.

It ended fast.

Security swarmed seconds later.

Callan was already gone.

Outside, the city was damp and buzzing. Rain in the gutters. A helicopter overhead.

He walked six blocks through silence, coat wrapped tight, pain simmering under every breath.

Stopped at a payphone. One of the last.

The receiver smelled like old sweat and nickel. He held it to his ear. Dialed.

One ring.

“Yeah,” came the voice. Diego. Dry. Precise. Like a scalpel.

“You still have that safehouse in Overtown?” Callan asked.

Pause. “Why?”

“There’s someone who saw me.” A beat. “And I didn’t kill her.”

Silence.

“You want that cleaned up?” Diego asked.

Callan stared down the street. Headlights blurred in the mist.

“No.” His voice was quieter now. “Just… let it breathe.”

He hung up.

Stood there for a moment, listening to the wind press through the alley.

The pain hadn’t stopped. But it felt different now.

Not like punishment.

Like consequence.