The lecture hall echoed with low chatter as students filed in, white coats rustling and coffee cups in hand. This was the first day of Clinical Ethics, a required course. But Eliot Wren, then a wide-eyed second-year med student, was already seated in the front row—back straight, notebook open.
He wasn't there for the credits.
He was there for Dr. Kenneth Havel.
Havel was legendary. Head of Internal Medicine at St. Claire's. Author of two textbooks. Charismatic, sharp, charming. The kind of doctor everyone wanted to be.
And Eliot once wanted his approval more than anything.
"Ah, Mr. Wren," Havel had said after class one afternoon, looking over Eliot's case study. "You have a mind like a scalpel. Ever consider cardiology?"
Eliot had smiled then, flattered. Inspired. He believed in medicine back then.
But that was before Mara died.
And months later, when Eliot finally got a full look at her referral records, it hit him like a scalpel to the chest:
Dr. Kenneth Havel had been one of the senior consultants overseeing her misdiagnosis.
He'd signed off on the case.
Dismissed the elevated markers as "stress-related."
Overrode a junior physician who had recommended a pericardial scan.
Havel had let her die.
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Present day.
It was a cold Tuesday evening when Eliot entered the quiet back offices of St. Claire's Hospital, wearing a visitor's badge and a disarming smile. Havel had retired from surgery but still took occasional consults, mentoring young residents.
He didn't recognize Eliot at first.
"Can I help you?" he asked, setting down a mug of tea.
"It's me. Eliot Wren. Former student. Class of '16."
Havel blinked, then grinned. "Wren! Of course. You're at St. Augustine's now, aren't you? I've heard excellent things."
They talked for ten minutes. Havel didn't remember Mara. Of course he didn't. She was just one of the many poor patients shuffled through public hospitals. Not a name—just a chart.
But Eliot never forgot.
Not her face. Not her final breath. Not the signature on the bottom of that misdiagnosis report.
"I always admired you," Eliot said quietly, his voice steady. "But now I wonder... do you ever think about the patients you failed?"
Havel chuckled. "We all make mistakes, son. Part of the job. Can't carry every ghost."
Eliot smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Later that night, Havel collapsed in his home. Sudden cardiac arrest. No signs of foul play. He'd been taking potassium supplements for arrhythmia. No one thought twice when a vial turned out to be... slightly off in dosage.
Just enough.
At the funeral, Eliot stood in the back. No expression. No tears.
As the eulogies praised Havel's brilliance, Eliot whispered under his breath:
"Justice for Mara."
But even as he said it, a bitter taste rose in hiBut even as he said it, a bitter taste rose in his throat. It didn't feel like peace. It felt like something darker. Something that wouldn't stop with just one man.
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End of Chapter 4.
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