Foreigner

Chapter 40

Whittiker Memorial Hospital smells like bleach and disinfectant. A sterile kind of silence clings to the corners, thick and padded, like the walls want to keep all sound from leaving. I stand just inside the doorway of Dean Lockhart's recovery room, hands shoved in the pockets of my coat, as Vic stares down at the battered mess of his second-in-command.

Dean's upright in bed, propped up on too many pillows, eyes glassy but aware. There's a thick bandage wrapped around his chest, oxygen tubes hooked under his nose, and angry purple bruises climbing the side of his jaw. His breathing sounds like it's trying too hard. Every inhale is shallow. Controlled. I count three machines monitoring him and one IV drip. The heart monitor clicks steadily like a ticking clock.

Caleb stands at the foot of the bed, arms folded, sharp-eyed and quiet. Adrian leans against the window ledge, annoyed, arms crossed, bouncing one heel off the wall behind him like he's trying to stop himself from pacing.

No one speaks for a while. Then Caleb clears his throat.

"No footage," he says, voice smooth and quiet. "The security feed cuts out at the exact corner near the gymnasium, stadium perimeter, and around the equipment shed. From Theo's... escapades with Lukas. Nobody corrected the camera angles. Whoever did this knew exactly where the blind spots were."

Adrian scoffs, straightens up. "Or someone wiped the feed afterwards."

"Not possible," Caleb answers immediately. "The hidden cameras are encrypted. And I checked the time stamps myself — no tampering. Someone planned this."

"The zip-ties," Adrian says, nodding toward Dean. "That's an executioner's detail. Not just a beating — a message and an interrogation. Whoever it was knew what they were doing. Probably one of our own little followers trying to start an uprising. Or..." His eyes flick lazily across the room — Caleb, then me, then back to the window. "An ex-member."

Dean's gaze cuts toward me. Just for a second. But it lands.

I don't look away.

Zip-ties. The equipment shed. No footage. Dean staring holes into my face like he knows I know. There's only one person who would go that far without leaving a trace. One person with the strength to crack two ribs and the precision to aim for a lung. And one person with reason enough to make Dean Lockhart crawl.

I don't say it. I don't need to.

Vic hasn't moved. He's standing at Dean's bedside like a statue carved from some meaner century — arms crossed, shoulders squared, jaw locked in that cold, quiet expression he wears when he's already ten steps ahead. He's not asking who did it. He's not confused. He's watching Dean breathe like it's his job to make sure it continues.

The silence stretches long.

Finally, Vic speaks.

"Everyone. Out."

No change in tone. No raised voice. Just an order. A quiet, absolute command that breaks the room apart.

Caleb hesitates, then steps back. Adrian mutters something under his breath and pushes off the wall. I glance at Dean one more time. His eyes are still on me. Not angry. Not scared. Just...watching. Like he's waiting for me to say something I don't intend to say.

I turn and follow the others out.

¤ ¤ ¤

While Vic stays behind at the hospital, his SUV hums quietly as it glides down the road, tires slicing through snow like it's not even there. I sit alone in the third row, shoulders pressed into polished leather, watching the blur of trees outside the window. The heater's on too high. The air feels stale. Trapped.