Justice of the Supreme War God

Chapter 23: Power of Attorney PART 1

Dr. Franklin Morse looked at Marcus Hayes.

It lasted perhaps two seconds. Long enough for something to move across the Dean of Medicine's face — not a dramatic revelation, not the theatrical double-take of a man encountering a ghost. Something quieter and considerably more telling. A rapid, internal recalibration of the kind that happens when a person's brain receives information that conflicts sharply with what their eyes are presenting them.

He looked at the worn gray suit.

He looked at the man inside it.

He took one step backward.

It was a small step. Subtle enough that Catherine, who was watching Morse's face for the agreement she expected, almost missed it. Almost.

"Ma'am," Morse said, and his voice had undergone a specific adjustment — still professional, still measured, but with the careful quality of a man choosing his words in proximity to something he has correctly identified as requiring caution. "I understand your concern, and I want to assure you that your daughter is receiving the best possible care." He paused. "But I'm afraid what you're asking isn't something we're able to do."

Catherine blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"We cannot remove —"

"This man," Catherine said, very distinctly, "may have harmed my daughter. I am her mother. I am telling you, as the senior family member present, that I want him removed from this building and I want his access to her room and her medical information blocked entirely." She drew herself up to her full height. "Are you telling me that this institution is going to side with —" she gestured at Marcus with the sharp, dismissive flick she reserved for things she considered beneath serious engagement — "with him, over me?"

"We're not taking sides, ma'am."

"Then remove him."

"I can't do that," Morse said quietly.

The lobby was very still.

 Catherine stared at the Dean of Medicine with the specific, affronted bewilderment of a woman who had operated for decades in a world where her requests, delivered with sufficient force and the appropriate social weight, produced results.

Being refused was not a familiar sensation. Being refused in a public lobby by a hospital administrator while a man in a gray suit stood calmly beside her was a particular variety of it she had never encountered.

"I am Diana's husband," Marcus said. His voice was even and factual. "Which means I hold power of attorney for medical decisions in situations where she is incapacitated. Her treatment, her records, her access list — those are decisions that currently belong to me." He looked at Catherine without hostility. "I'm not blocking you from seeing her. You're her mother. But I won't be leaving, and I won't be redirecting her care."

Catherine opened her mouth.

The lobby doors slid open.

 Liam Steel came through them wearing an expression that he had assembled into something resembling concern on the drive over but hadn't quite managed to make convincing.

He was dressed too well for someone who had rushed to a hospital — jacket buttoned, not a hair displaced — which communicated more about the nature of his concern than he likely intended.

His eyes found the group near the waiting area and he crossed toward them with the forward momentum of a man arriving to a situation he intended to reshape.

Marcus's face didn't change.

But something in the lobby's atmosphere changed with it — a very slight, very specific shift in air pressure, the kind that precedes weather.

"What happened?" Liam's voice aimed for worried and landed somewhere closer to performative. He addressed Catherine directly, treating Marcus as furniture. "I got a call from Isabella. Is Diana —"

"She's stable," Catherine said. "No thanks to —"

"What are you doing here?"

Marcus's voice was quiet. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just direct, the way a door being closed is direct.

Liam stopped.