CRACK.
The bone snapped beneath the weight.
Julian screamed, dropping the weapon as his shoulder collapsed inward, his body twisting sideways into the metal tray, sending instruments, gauze, and scissors clattering across the floor in a chaotic, ringing shower.
He hit the linoleum hard, clutching his ruined shoulder, gasping through his teeth, his tailored suit bunched up around his neck like an old rag.
Chloe didn’t move.
She stood by the examination bed, her bruised hands hanging loose, staring at the man on the floor, then at the scraps of paper scattered around her bare feet.
The silence that returned to Room 904 was vast, empty, and terrifying.
“It was all a lie,” she whispered, her voice finally breaking into the small, fragile register of the girl who used to read under the porch while the rain came down.“Everything.
The records… my father… all of it.”
I picked up the small titanium pistol from the floor, ejected the magazine, racked the jammed slide to clear the live round, and laid the empty components on the bedside table.
