It had been years since I'd experienced anything more serious than a mild cold, yet here I was—reduced to a shell of myself. Days of relentless vomiting had left my body hollow, each heave robbing me of strength. My clothes hung loose, my weight plummeting at an alarming rate, and the gnawing fear inside me was louder than ever.
The idea of seeing a doctor was nearly as terrifying as the symptoms themselves. But denial could only get me so far. I'd reached the point where my body wasn't just sending warnings—it was screaming for help.
The rhythmic ticking of the wall clock filled the silence, each beat marking another second of waiting, another moment for my mind to spiral. My hands fidgeted in my lap as I adjusted my glasses, trying to stay calm, but the storm of anxious thoughts wouldn't relent.
Could it be salmonella? Maybe that suspicious sushi from Mason's wedding two months ago? But the timeline didn't add up. Nothing else seemed to, either.
Except for one grim conclusion: I was dying. My body had betrayed me, and this was the end. It was the only explanation that made sense in the haze of my panic.
The door creaked open, breaking through the cacophony of my thoughts like a whip crack. Reiner entered with his usual air of exasperated authority, a folder clutched tightly in one hand. His sharp, calculating eyes darted toward me before he dropped into the chair behind his massive oak desk. His lab coat hung open, his glasses glinting as he scanned the room.
"Haven't I told you not to bother me at work?" he grumbled, his tone as blunt as ever. Adjusting his glasses, he leaned back in his chair, the picture of casual irritation. "This could be considered harassment, you know."
"Oh, God forbid I come to you when I'm dying," I snapped, rolling my eyes. "Also, since when does visiting my own brother count as harassment?" I crossed my arms and leaned back in the chair, glaring at him.
Reiner Chandler, one of my older brothers.
Reiner barely glanced at me as he adjusted his glasses, his expression as detached as ever. "We're not even that close, Row," he muttered, his voice low and tinged with something bitter, almost resentful. "You've always preferred Ryder." The accusation hung in the air, unspoken for years but now given voice.
I rolled my eyes again, unwilling to let him bait me. "Yeah, well, Ryder's not the doctor in the family, is he?" My tone was sharper than I intended, but I wasn't about to let him drag Ryder into this.
