Page 10 of The Beast’s Broken Angel

I masked my panic with practiced ease, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

The reauthorization required a fifty-thousand pound deposit that we simply didn’t have.

My credit cards were maxed, our parents had disappeared years ago and left nothing behind, and no assets remained to leverage.

The modest salary of an NHS trauma nurse barely covered Isabelle’s basic medical expenses, let alone the astronomical costs of experimental immunotherapy.

“Don't worry about paperwork,” I promised with forced lightness, smoothing a strand of hair from her too-pale face. “Focus on those gallery submissions. I'll handle the medical bureaucracy.”

Her trusting smile twisted in my chest like a knife. I had exactly twenty-eight days to find money that didn't exist.

“How was your day?” she asked, clearly trying to change the subject for my benefit. “Save any lives?”

“A few,” I admitted, settling into the chair beside her bed. “Lost one.”

Isabelle reached for my hand, our roles momentarily reversed as she offered comfort. “You can't save everyone, Noah. You've always taken on too much responsibility.”

I squeezed her fingers gently, noticing how thin they’d become despite recent improvements. “I promised myself I’d look after you and Mum. Had to, once Dad was gone.”

“And you have,” she said fiercely. “More than anyone could have expected. But sometimes I worry who's looking after you.”

Since Isabelle's diagnosis, all my energy had focused on keeping her alive. My own needs had receded to background noise, irrelevant compared to the immediate crisis of her survival.

“I'm a big boy,” I said lightly. “Fully capable of looking after myself.”

Isabelle didn't look convinced but let it slide.

“Look what I've been working on,” she said instead, turning her sketchbook toward me.

The drawing showed a fantastical landscape, mountains that morphed into sleeping giants, clouds shaped like dragons.

Even in black and white, the image pulsed with imagination and life.

“It's brilliant,” I said honestly. “That gallery would be mad not to accept your portfolio.”

Her face lit up with genuine pleasure. “Do you really think so? It's for that exhibition I told you about, the one featuring artists under thirty.”

I spent the next twenty minutes discussing her art, grateful for the temporary reprieve from medical concerns.

Isabelle had always been the creative one, transforming blank pages into worlds of wonder even as a child.

Her talent had only grown despite interruptions for treatments and hospital stays.

The possibility of her first gallery showing represented more than professional recognition—it was tangible proof that we could plan for a future beyond illness.

Eventually, her eyelids began to droop, the day's medication taking its toll. I helped her settle back against the pillows, adjusting the IV lines carefully to prevent tangling .

“Get some proper sleep, yeah?” she murmured, already half-drifting. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

“Cheeky,” I replied with feigned offense. “I'll have you know this is the height of medical fashion.”

Twenty-eight days. Fifty thousand pounds. Impossible numbers staring me in the face with merciless clarity.

My shift finally ended at midnight. I trudged toward the staff exit, mentally calculating which bill payments I could delay this month to start saving for Isabelle's treatment deposit.

Rent was non-negotiable, but perhaps the electric company would grant another extension.

My own student loan payments could be deferred with hardship paperwork.

It wouldn't come close to the needed amount, but every pound counted.

The hospital corridors were quieter now, the night shift settled into their routine. My footsteps echoed on polished floors as I passed darkened offices and dimmed nursing stations. My body moved on autopilot, guided by muscle memory toward the promise of fresh air and eventually sleep.

As I rounded the corner toward the staff exit, I noticed police tape cordoning off a section of corridor—the aftermath of Wilson's intrusion hours earlier.

A cleaning crew worked silently to remove dark stains from the floor that I recognised immediately as blood.

I averted my eyes, not wanting to know whose blood it was or how much had been spilled.

“Nurse Hastings.”

The voice stopped me in my tracks—cultured, commanding, instantly recognisable.

I turned to find the scarred man from earlier, now dressed in an impeccable suit that disguised his injury.

No longer surrounded by his entourage but somehow more intimidating alone.

His heterochromatic eyes regarded me with the same intensity I'd noticed in the trauma bay, as if cataloguing every detail of my appearance for future reference.

“You should be resting that shoulder,” I responded automatically, professional concern overriding my instinct to keep walking. “Torn scar tissue needs proper immobilisation to prevent permanent damage.”

He inclined his head slightly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

In the dimmed hospital lighting, his scars created fascinating topography across the right side of his face, telling a story of survival against catastrophic injury.

The contrast between the damaged and undamaged sides of his features was striking rather than repellent—a visual representation of duality.

“I have a proposition for you,” he stated, ignoring my medical advice entirely. His voice carried the subtle authority of someone accustomed to compliance. “I require someone with your expertise for a private matter. Your compensation would be substantial.”

He extended a business card with elegant, deliberate movements. The heavy card stock bore only a name—Adrian Calloway—and a phone number. No title, no company, no address. The minimalist design somehow conveyed more power than any elaborate credentials could have.

“I don't do private nursing,” I began, automatic refusal forming on my lips. My schedule barely accommodated my current responsibilities, and moonlighting violated my NHS contract terms.

His cold smile stopped my words. “This isn't a request for home care,” he corrected softly. “It's an opportunity to solve your sister's financial situation. Permanently.”

I froze, ice flooding my veins as his words registered. How did this dangerous stranger know about Isabelle? About our financial struggles? The card suddenly felt like a burning coal between my fingers.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said carefully, instinctive caution raising defences honed through childhood in London's roughest neighbourhoods.

“Isabella Hastings, twenty-two, autoimmune lymphoproliferative syndrome with atypical presentation.

Experimental immunotherapy treatment authorisation expires in twenty-eight days.

Reauthorisation requires fifty thousand pounds that you don't have.” His recitation of these private details was casual, matter-of-fact.

“Your sister's recovery shows promise, but without continued treatment, relapse is virtually guaranteed.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, anger flaring alongside fear. “Have you been accessing confidential medical records? That's illegal.”

“Many things are illegal, Mr. Hastings,” he replied with casual dismissal. “What matters is whether they serve necessary purposes.”

My eyes flicked involuntarily toward the blood stains being cleaned from the floor nearby.

This man had been shot—whether by James Wilson during today's hospital incident or in some earlier confrontation, I couldn't be sure.

The wound I'd treated appeared consistent with older trauma rather than fresh injury, but Wilson himself was now 'subdued' and Calloway stood before me without his security detail, seemingly unconcerned about being in the same building where someone had tried to kill him.

The corridor suddenly felt colder, the shadows deeper.

This man represented something dangerous, something outside the ordered world of medicine and protocols I'd built my life around.

Yet in his words lay the possibility—however suspect—of solving the impossible equation that kept me awake at night .

“What exactly are you proposing?” I asked, caution warring with desperate curiosity.

“My regular physician is retiring. I require someone with specific expertise in burn scar maintenance and trauma care. Someone discreet, capable under pressure, and unencumbered by excessive moral rigidity.” His eyes held mine, searching for something beyond my professional qualifications.

“Your work today demonstrated technical skill and remarkable composure during a security threat. Your history suggests adaptability to challenging circumstances.”

I should have walked away. Everything about this encounter screamed warning—the man's obvious criminal connections, his unsettling knowledge of my private circumstances, the implicit threat beneath his cultured tones.

But Isabelle's face floated in my mind, her trust that I would somehow fix things, as I always had.

My fingers tightened around the business card, the embossed letters pressing into my skin. “And if I refuse?”

His smile never reached his eyes. “Then you continue as you are, watching the calendar count down while bureaucrats decide your sister's fate. The choice is entirely yours, Mr. Hastings. Freedom often lies in acknowledging when choice itself is an illusion.”

With that cryptic statement, he walked away, his gait betraying no hint of the injury I'd treated hours earlier. I stood frozen in the dimly lit corridor, his business card clutched in my trembling hand, the weight of impossible decisions pressing down like a physical force.

Twenty-eight days until Isabelle's treatment authorisation expired. Fifty thousand pounds required for reauthorisation. A mysterious, dangerous man offering solution wrapped in implicit threat.

What choice did I really have?