A Demand In The Private Wing
A slender gold pen pointed directly at the empty corridor as the woman in the crimson suit squared her shoulders.
She looked down at the patient resting quietly on the upholstered beige bench next to a vase of white lilies.
“This area is for wealthy,” she said, tilting her chin up. “Move, please.”
The woman sitting down did not raise her voice. She pulled her brown handbag close to her lap, gathered her cardigan, and slowly rose to her feet.
Her fingers tightened around the leather straps of her purse as she took a single step toward the center of the hall.
The woman in red pulled a sleek mobile device from her jacket and tapped the screen with the tip of her pen.
“I don’t think you belong in this wing,” she remarked, without glancing up from her notes.
Footsteps Down The Hall
Down the long, sunlit corridor, a white lab coat moved swiftly past the glass partitions.
Dr. Paulson walked with purposeful strides, a silver stethoscope swaying gently against his chest.
His eyes tracked the exchange from thirty paces away, quickening his pace along the polished floor.
Seeing the physician approach, the woman in red lowered her screen and gestured sharply toward the exit doors.
“Can you have her removed?” she asked, her voice sharp and level. “Right now.”
The woman with the brown handbag kept her eyes lowered, clasping her hands loosely in front of her wool trousers.
She stood perfectly still, offering no defense and making no attempt to argue her place in the private corridor.
The Identity Revealed
Dr. Paulson did not look at the security panel or call for hospital staff.
Instead, he closed the remaining distance and rested his right palm gently against the shoulder of the woman with the handbag.
The fabric of her cardigan shifted under his hand as he leaned in slightly to offer support.
He turned his gaze toward the woman in the tailored suit, his mouth setting into a firm line.
“She’s the donor,” Dr. Paulson said quietly.
He paused, his hand remaining fixed on her shoulder, before speaking the remainder of the sentence.
“Her kidney goes to your father in one hour.”
The Sound On The Floor
The eyelids of the woman in red stretched wide, revealing rings of pale blue around her pupils.
Her lips parted into a wide, hollow oval as her chest drew in a sharp breath that remained trapped in her throat.
The blood drained from her cheeks, leaving her skin pale against the vibrant fabric of her collar.
Her fingers unclenched, releasing the smooth metal barrel she had been clutching.
The gold pen tipped through the air, spun end over end, and struck the polished marble with a sharp clatter before skittering across the floor tiles toward her red high heels.
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