The staff lounge was quiet. Late evening. Most of the nurses had clocked out, and the night shift hadn't fully trickled in. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, and the coffee machine wheezed like an old man refusing to retire.
Eliot sat on the worn leather couch, reading over a patient chart, pen tapping lightly against the edge.
Cara stood in the doorway, watching him.
He didn't look dangerous. Just tired. Focused. Kind.
But so had wolves, once they'd earned your trust.
She stepped inside.
"Got a minute?"
Eliot looked up, offering his usual easy smile. "Of course. Everything okay?"
"I went digging through the old case archives today," she said.
The smile didn't drop—not right away. But something behind his eyes changed. A flicker.
"Oh?"
"I found someone," she said softly. "Mara Wren. Your sister."
A pause. One second. Two.
Eliot's hands stilled. The pen stopped tapping.
"I see," he said, voice quiet.
"I know she died under Havel's care," Cara continued, choosing her words with care. "I know you were just a med student. I know it must have—"
"You don't know," Eliot said. His voice was still calm. Still warm. But colder somehow, beneath it. "You read a report. A death certificate. That's not the same as watching someone you love suffocate while the people who are supposed to help look the other way."
Cara swallowed. "I'm not judging you."
"No?" His eyes met hers. "Then why does it feel like you're building a case?"
She stepped closer. "Because people are dying around you, Eliot. Quietly. Painlessly. Predictably. People who were suffering. People who trusted you."
Eliot said nothing.
"I'm not accusing you," she said. "But I am asking. As a nurse. As someone who wants to believe you're still the doctor I thought you were."
Eliot leaned back, eyes on the ceiling for a long moment.
Finally, he whispered, "Have you ever watched someone beg for death with their eyes, because they've lost the ability to speak?"
Cara said nothing.
"I have," Eliot said. "Again. And again. And again. And I promised her—I promised Mara—I'd never let anyone else suffer like she did."
"But who decides what suffering means?" Cara said, stepping forward. "You? You get to play God now?"
He looked at her—and for a moment, just a flash—she saw grief, not cruelty.
"I'm not playing God," he said. "God doesn't return calls."
The silence that followed was thick.
"I'm not here to turn you in," Cara said finally. "Not yet. But you need to stop, Eliot. Whatever line you crossed—it's not justice anymore. It's something else."
She turned to leave. Hesitated. Then added, "And if you can't stop… at least don't make me the one who has to catch you."
Eliot stayed in his seat long after she was gone.
The chart in his lap slipped to the floor, forgotten.
And for the first time in years, he didn't know what to do next.
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End of Chapter 7.
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