Page 11 of The Beast’s Broken Angel

DESPERATE MEASURES

NOAH

I stared at the business card in my dimly lit flat, turning it over repeatedly between my fingers.

The heavy card stock felt significant against my skin, the embossed lettering catching what little light filtered through the thin curtains.

Three hours had passed since our strange encounter in the hospital corridor, yet sleep remained as elusive as the solutions I desperately needed.

London's ambient city noise provided a fitting soundtrack to my moral crisis—distant sirens, occasional shouts from late-night revellers, the persistent hum of a metropolis that never truly slept.

My tiny Brixton flat felt even more cramped tonight, the walls pressing in with each passing hour as I contemplated crossing lines I'd promised myself I never would.

The business card contained only a name and number.

Such minimalism spoke volumes about the man who'd handed it to me—someone so confident in his identity that elaboration was unnecessary.

Adrian Calloway. The name had circled in my mind since our encounter, accompanied by the unsettling memory of those heterochromatic eyes studying me with cold calculation.

My laptop screen glowed with search results, casting ghostly blue light across my unshaven face.

I'd spent hours digging for information—Adrian Calloway, owner of legitimate businesses including The Raven's Nest nightclub and various property holdings across London.

Mentions of charitable donations to burn victim organisations and children's hospitals appeared alongside whispered forum posts about criminal connections and unexplained disappearances.

The disparate fragments painted a picture of a man straddling worlds, his feet planted firmly in both legitimacy and something far darker.

“Fuck,” I muttered, rubbing my tired eyes.

I pulled up Isabelle's medical file, which I wasn't supposed to access remotely—another rule broken in a night rapidly accumulating ethical compromises.

The treatment authorisation form glared back at me, the requirements outlined in sterile, bureaucratic language that disguised the human cost of compliance.

Fifty-thousand-pound deposit required within twenty-eight days.

Money I didn't have and couldn't borrow through any conventional means.

The reality of our situation hit me anew with each paragraph of medical jargon.

Without continued treatment, Isabelle's hard-won remission would crumble like sand castles against incoming tide.

Two years of fighting, of watching my vibrant sister endure pain beyond description, all potentially undone by financial limitations and insurance company algorithms designed to maximise profit rather than healing.

I opened my banking app, the balance pitiful despite working double shifts for months.

Savings depleted by the initial rounds of treatment.

Credit cards maxed. The second job I'd interviewed for last week at a private clinic would barely make a dent in what Isabelle needed.

Her life depended on treatment continuity, on medicine flowing through her veins without interruption.

The weight of this responsibility pressed against my chest, making each breath a conscious effort.

The bedside clock blinked 4:17 AM, its red digits accusatory. My shift started in less than four hours, yet another day of life-or-death decisions made through the fog of exhaustion. The irony didn't escape me—I saved strangers daily while potentially failing the one person who mattered most.

Images of Calloway's scarred face floated before my tired eyes.

The extensive burn damage told a story of catastrophic injury and remarkable survival, of pain endured and transformed.

There was something almost hypnotic about the contrast between the damaged and undamaged sides of his face, a visual representation of duality that seemed too perfect a metaphor for the choice now before me.

As dawn broke, pale light creeping across my cluttered flat, I finally made a decision. The mental arithmetic was brutally simple: my sister's life against whatever compromise Calloway would demand. When balanced thus, no real choice existed.

I picked up my phone and dialled the number on the card, heart pounding against my ribs hard enough to hurt. It rang once before Adrian's cool voice answered, as if he'd been waiting, perhaps even expecting my call at this precise moment.

“I knew you'd call, Mr. Hastings,” he said, satisfaction evident in his cultured tones.

The certainty in his voice should have angered me, but instead sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. The sensation wasn't entirely unpleasant—a fact that disturbed me more than his presumption.

“I want to hear more about your proposition,” I replied, fighting to keep my voice steady, professional. “ No commitments yet.”

“Of course,” he responded smoothly. “Tomorrow evening, eight o'clock. A car will collect you.”

“Where am I going?” I asked, already knowing I'd receive no satisfactory answer.

“Somewhere private, where we can discuss matters properly.” His voice carried a note of finality that discouraged further questions. “Until tomorrow, Mr. Hastings.”

The line went dead, leaving me with the distinct impression that I'd just taken the first step onto a bridge I would never be able to uncross.

I arrived for my regular morning shift despite my sleepless night, mechanically checking supplies while my mind replayed my brief phone conversation with Calloway.

The hospital's familiar rhythms should have been comforting, but today they felt like the ticking of a clock counting down to something irreversible.

The emergency department bustled with its usual controlled chaos—nurses changing shifts, doctors reviewing cases, patients in various states of distress waiting for attention.

The normalcy felt surreal after the events of yesterday.

Had it really been less than twenty-four hours since I'd treated Calloway’s gunshot wound?

Since I'd witnessed an armed man being “neutralised” by Calloway's security team?

The blood stains had been scrubbed clean, the police tape removed, as if nothing had happened.

“Bloody hell, you look terrible,” Mika commented, sliding a coffee toward me at the nurses' station.

Her purple hair was freshly dyed, vibrant against the clinical whites and blues of the hospital.

“More than usual terrible, I mean. Your sister okay?” Her perceptiveness was both comforting and concerning today .

I accepted the coffee gratefully, the scalding liquid momentarily distracting me from my exhaustion. “Just knackered,” I lied, avoiding her searching gaze. “Dr. Whitman wants to discuss Isabelle's treatment plan later. I'm hoping for good news.”

The half-truth tasted bitter on my tongue. I'd always been honest with Mika, who'd supported me through Isabelle's diagnosis and countless hospital crises. The small deception felt like another boundary crossed, another step away from the person I'd believed myself to be.

“Jonathan's been asking about you,” she said casually, though something in her expression suggested concern. “Seems proper bothered about something that happened during the lockdown yesterday.”

My hand tightened around the coffee cup. “Nothing happened.”

Mika raised an eyebrow. “That rich bloke with the scars. Jonathan says his security team handled that gunman before hospital security even responded. Says they weren't police or official personnel.”

“I was busy treating patients,” I replied carefully. “Didn't see much of anything.”

“Right,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “Well, Jon's on the warpath about proper protocols being ignored. Just giving you a heads-up.”

I nodded, grateful for the warning even as anxiety coiled tighter in my stomach. Jonathan had been a colleague and occasional friend since my transfer to the trauma unit, but his family connections to Scotland Yard made him dangerous territory now that I was considering Calloway's proposition.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I said, deliberately changing the subject. “I'll need it for the Abbott case. His post-surgical assessment is this morning. ”

Mika allowed the deflection, though her eyes held questions she was too good a friend to force. We separated to attend our respective patients, the rhythm of the hospital providing welcome distraction from my internal turmoil.

Hours later, I found myself in Dr. Whitman's office for Isabelle's scheduled treatment review. The oncologist's expression was carefully neutral as he reviewed her charts, but I'd spent enough time in medical settings to recognise the subtle tells of concerning news.

“The treatment is working,” he confirmed, scrolling through her latest test results. “Her markers are significantly improved from three months ago. The experimental protocol is showing remarkable results in her specific case.”

Relief washed through me, momentarily displacing my anxiety about tomorrow's meeting with Calloway. “That's brilliant news.”

“But,” Dr. Whitman continued, his tone shifting subtly, “insurance is pushing back on the next phase.

They're classifying it as experimental despite our documentation of efficacy.” He removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose—the universal sign of a doctor delivering unwelcome news.

“We're appealing, of course, but these processes take time.”

The temporary relief evaporated, replaced by the cold reality of bureaucratic indifference. “What happens if there's an interruption in treatment?” I asked, already knowing but needing to hear it confirmed.