06-02-2025, 11:01 PM
Carter sat quietly, hands folded over his knee, posture perfect despite the ungodly hour. His own reflection in the polished window glass flickered beneath the gentle hum of LED lighting—tuxedoed, composed, and faintly out of place. Like a portrait hanging crooked in the wrong gallery.
To be honest, this was his first experience at a hospital. The family paid for private care his entire life, medical teams that came to you, not the other way around. But Cyrena’s injury required advanced technology that couldn’t be brought to her, so they had to come here. Still, it wasn’t her condition that currently pulled his focus. It was the man seated just across from him.
After Cyrena pointed him out, he couldn’t help but notice him. The government-issued overcoat partially concealed the insignia on his sleeve, but not enough. He’d caught a brief, gleaming flash of it when the man adjusted his position, and curiosity had pricked Carter like a burr under the skin. He wasn’t above doing a quick search. Just a glance, a name, a rank. The symbol belonged to one of the Nine Rods. Dominions. The mysterious personal soldiers of the Ascendancy. Not one of the faceless guards that lined convoys and stood outside city gates, but one of the elite. The enforcers. The chosen.
Carter wasn’t easily impressed. But the presence of such a man sitting in a hospital ER, quietly nursing what looked like a broken hand, sent his mind spinning. What could bring someone like him here, unguarded and alone? And why did he look so… spent?
The man’s posture was taut but restrained. His coat clung to him like a shield, the collar still damp from the weather. His face had the rough, sleepless quality of someone who’d lost more than a fight. Someone losing pieces of himself by degrees. Carter watched the way the man flexed his injured hand, the brief tension in his jaw when it throbbed, the flicker of annoyance when someone else’s name was called before his. There was no outrage, just resignation. The kind that spoke volumes. He hadn’t been looked after. He wasn’t used to being looked after.
Carter’s eyes moved back toward the hallway Cyrena had disappeared down. She was likely receiving top-tier care already. She always would. He could only imagine how it looked. Some silk-draped heiress hobbling in and bypassing every protocol like royalty at a gala.
Because, in a way, she was. Technically, so was he, but he knew how it must look to the average person.
He couldn’t put his finger on what made this man different. There was no air of arrogance. No hungry thirst for power. Only weariness. And something feral, barely restrained, behind the calm surface. It unsettled him in the same way it fascinated him. Carter settled back, quietly taking him in. No movement now. No conversation. Just a slow simmering curiosity.
That’s when the man mumbled.
Carter replied. “Sorry about that. She’s not the kind of person you want to jump ahead of in line.”
To be honest, this was his first experience at a hospital. The family paid for private care his entire life, medical teams that came to you, not the other way around. But Cyrena’s injury required advanced technology that couldn’t be brought to her, so they had to come here. Still, it wasn’t her condition that currently pulled his focus. It was the man seated just across from him.
After Cyrena pointed him out, he couldn’t help but notice him. The government-issued overcoat partially concealed the insignia on his sleeve, but not enough. He’d caught a brief, gleaming flash of it when the man adjusted his position, and curiosity had pricked Carter like a burr under the skin. He wasn’t above doing a quick search. Just a glance, a name, a rank. The symbol belonged to one of the Nine Rods. Dominions. The mysterious personal soldiers of the Ascendancy. Not one of the faceless guards that lined convoys and stood outside city gates, but one of the elite. The enforcers. The chosen.
Carter wasn’t easily impressed. But the presence of such a man sitting in a hospital ER, quietly nursing what looked like a broken hand, sent his mind spinning. What could bring someone like him here, unguarded and alone? And why did he look so… spent?
The man’s posture was taut but restrained. His coat clung to him like a shield, the collar still damp from the weather. His face had the rough, sleepless quality of someone who’d lost more than a fight. Someone losing pieces of himself by degrees. Carter watched the way the man flexed his injured hand, the brief tension in his jaw when it throbbed, the flicker of annoyance when someone else’s name was called before his. There was no outrage, just resignation. The kind that spoke volumes. He hadn’t been looked after. He wasn’t used to being looked after.
Carter’s eyes moved back toward the hallway Cyrena had disappeared down. She was likely receiving top-tier care already. She always would. He could only imagine how it looked. Some silk-draped heiress hobbling in and bypassing every protocol like royalty at a gala.
Because, in a way, she was. Technically, so was he, but he knew how it must look to the average person.
He couldn’t put his finger on what made this man different. There was no air of arrogance. No hungry thirst for power. Only weariness. And something feral, barely restrained, behind the calm surface. It unsettled him in the same way it fascinated him. Carter settled back, quietly taking him in. No movement now. No conversation. Just a slow simmering curiosity.
That’s when the man mumbled.
Carter replied. “Sorry about that. She’s not the kind of person you want to jump ahead of in line.”