Page 13 of The Beast’s Broken Angel

CROSSROADS

NOAH

L ooking at my bathroom mirror, assessing my appearance with critical eyes.

The stark fluorescent lighting did me no favours, highlighting the dark circles beneath my eyes, the pallor that came from too many sleepless nights and hospital shifts.

I'd chosen my best shirt, a deep blue button-down that Isabelle had given me last Christmas, and my only proper trousers, pitifully inadequate for meeting someone of Calloway's evident wealth and power.

Running a hand through my damp hair, I tried to tame it into something presentable.

The reflection staring back at me looked exactly like what I was: a desperately tired nurse from a council estate background, not someone who belonged in whatever world Calloway inhabited.

I straightened my collar, a futile attempt to elevate my appearance to match the gravity of the evening ahead.

My cramped bathroom, with its perpetually dripping tap and cracked tiles, felt symbolic of the life I was potentially leaving behind. Modest, flawed, but honest. Safe, in its own way. The uncertain path stretching before me lacked even that small comfort.

“Get it together,” I muttered to my reflection. “This isn't about you.”

My phone buzzed on the sink edge, Mika's name flashing on the screen. I picked it up reluctantly, guilt already pooling in my stomach before I even read her message.

Mika

Drinks tonight? You need to decompress before you collapse. Jon might come too, though he's been proper mardy lately.

I typed another lie, adding to the growing collection of deceptions I'd accumulated in the past twenty-four hours:

Noah

Sorry, migraine. Rain check?

The bathroom shelf above the sink held a scattered array of medications, silent reminders of my responsibilities.

Anti-anxiety pills I sometimes took to manage stress after particularly difficult shifts, sleeping aids for my persistent insomnia, painkillers for the physical toll of lifting patients and standing for endless hours.

I considered taking something to calm my nerves but decided against it.

Tonight required clear thinking, sharp instincts, and unclouded judgment.

In my bedroom, I checked my wallet out of habit.

ID, hospital badge, a creased photo of Isabelle and me at her art school acceptance celebration three years ago.

She'd been vibrant then, full of life and promise before illness drained her colour and vitality.

Her smile in the photograph remained radiant, untouched by the suffering that would follow.

I traced the outline of her face with my fingertip, a ritual of remembrance and purpose .

I tucked Adrian's business card behind the photo, the two objects representing the opposing forces in my life: what I was protecting and what I was potentially surrendering to. The juxtaposition wasn't lost on me.

A final glance around my small flat revealed the modest life I'd built.

Medical textbooks stacked beside literature I rarely had time to read.

A half-finished cup of tea on the coffee table.

The worn sofa where I occasionally managed to sleep when my bed felt too empty, too silent.

Not much to show for thirty years of existence, but it was mine, built through honest work and clean choices. Until now.

At exactly 8 PM, my apartment buzzer sounded, the harsh electronic tone slicing through my contemplation.

From my window, I saw a sleek black car with tinted windows idling at the kerb, looking conspicuously out of place in my working-class neighbourhood.

Several passers-by slowed to admire it, perhaps wondering which of the building's residents had suddenly come into money or fame.

No turning back now. I took a deep breath, squaring my shoulders as if preparing for physical impact rather than a conversation. The weight of Isabelle's life, of her continued treatment, pressed against my chest, propelling me forward when every instinct urged retreat.

I descended the narrow stairwell, each step bringing me closer to whatever future Calloway was offering. The stairwell light flickered ominously, casting strange shadows that seemed to whisper warnings I deliberately ignored.

The car's interior smelled of expensive leather and subtle cologne, the luxurious appointments making my modest clothing feel even more inadequate.

The driver, a mountain of a man with cropped hair and a stony expression, had opened the rear door without speaking, his posture making it clear that waiting wasn't an option.

“Evening,” I said as I settled into the supple leather seat, feeling absurdly as though I should apologise for potentially leaving common-folk residue on the pristine upholstery.

The driver's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, assessing me with professional detachment. “Mr. Hastings,” he acknowledged with a slight nod. “I am Viktor. I handle security for Mr. Calloway.” The introduction felt significant, though I couldn't quite determine why.

As we pulled away from my building, I watched familiar Brixton landmarks slide past the window.

Streets I'd navigated countless times suddenly felt alien when viewed through the tinted windows of a luxury vehicle.

The bodega where I bought late-night essentials after hospital shifts.

The pub where Mika occasionally dragged me for “forced socialisation.” The park where I sometimes sat between shifts, grabbing moments of peace before returning to the chaos of the emergency department.

We travelled through progressively wealthier London neighbourhoods, the architecture growing more imposing, the streets cleaner, the pedestrians more elaborately adorned.

I watched my London dissolve into another version of itself, one I recognised primarily from treating its residents during my hospital shifts.

Chelsea, Kensington, areas where wealth accumulated like sedimentary layers, building upon generations of privilege.

“Mr. Calloway values punctuality,” Viktor offered unexpectedly as we passed through Hampstead's tree-lined streets. His eyes briefly met mine in the mirror again, conveying something beyond the simple statement. “And clarity. Speak directly. He dislikes ambiguity. ”

The advice felt like both assistance and warning, a cryptic orientation to the world I was about to enter. “Thanks,” I replied, uncertain how else to respond.

My medical training kicked in as I noticed the security measures at each intersection.

Unmarked vehicles positioned strategically, men who appeared casual but tracked our car with subtle vigilance, the occasional earpiece visible despite attempts at concealment.

We were being monitored and protected simultaneously, a realisation that sent a chill down my spine despite the car's comfortable temperature.

“First time visiting Ravenswood?” Viktor asked, breaking another stretch of silence.

“First time hearing of it,” I admitted.

Viktor nodded, as if this confirmed something. “Mr. Calloway appreciates that you came without extensive research. Shows trust.”

Or desperation, I thought but didn't say. The distinction felt increasingly meaningless.

The neighbourhoods transformed into genuine countryside with surprising speed, London's urban density giving way to sprawling estates and ancient trees.

We turned onto a private road where elaborate stone columns supported ornate iron gates.

Beyond stretched a driveway that curved through manicured grounds, disappearing into dense woodland that obscured whatever lay ahead.

“Ravenswood,” Viktor announced as the gates swung open automatically, responding to some unseen signal. Security cameras tracked our progress, small red lights blinking from discreet positions in the stonework. “Mr. Calloway's private residence.”

The estate revealed itself gradually as we followed the winding drive.

First came glimpses through the trees, then a full view that momentarily stole my breath.

The mansion loomed against the darkening sky, Gothic revival architecture creating an imposing silhouette that wouldn't have looked out of place in a Victorian novel.

Turrets rose at irregular intervals, windows glowed with warm light, and stone gargoyles perched along the roofline, their weathered faces watching our approach with permanent suspicion.

My throat tightened with apprehension as Viktor parked at the bottom of a grand staircase leading to enormous double doors. This wasn't merely a house; it was a statement of power, of generational wealth, of a world operating by different rules than the one I inhabited.

“Mr. Calloway is expecting you,” Viktor said, opening my door with unexpected courtesy. “Follow me, please.”

I stepped out into the cool evening air, acutely aware of my every movement being observed by unseen eyes.

Security personnel positioned throughout the grounds maintained an illusion of invisibility while missing nothing.

The weight of surveillance prickled against my skin as I followed Viktor up the stone staircase toward whatever awaited me inside.

The mansion's entryway dwarfed me, marble floors and soaring ceilings designed specifically to intimidate visitors.

Paintings that belonged in museums hung casually on wood-panelled walls, illuminated by discreet lighting that highlighted brushstrokes created by masters centuries dead.

A crystal chandelier cast rainbow prisms across the space, its delicate tinkling the only sound besides our footsteps on the polished floor.

I felt immediately, profoundly out of place—a sensation apparently shared by precisely no one else in the history of this entranceway, judging by the confident portraits of Calloway ancestors watching my discomfort with aristocratic disdain.