One hundred and forty billion reasons

Thrown to the Streets

Covenant General Hospital smelled of antiseptic and despair.

Rohen’s shoes squeaked against the linoleum as he hurried down the fourth-floor corridor, still wearing his valet uniform from the gala. He’d come straight here, unable to go home, unable to face Lira’s tears or his own failure. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and unforgiving.

Room 447. The number was burned into his memory.

He pushed through the door and stopped cold.

Mira lay in the bed, her skin translucent against the white sheets, dark circles beneath her closed eyes. IV lines snaked from her thin arms. The heart monitor beeped steadily, each sound a reminder that she was still here. Still alive.

For now.

“Mr. Ashtekar.”

Rohen turned to find Dr. Henrik Strauss standing in the doorway, clipboard in hand, his expression carved from stone. The doctor was tall, silver-haired, with the kind of aristocratic face that had probably never known real hardship.

“Doctor.” Rohen’s voice came out hoarse. “I know the payment didn’t come through, but if you could just give me a few more days—”

“A few more days?” Dr. Strauss’s laugh was cold. “Mr. Ashtekar, you seem to be under the impression that this hospital is a charity.”

“She needs the treatment. The immunosuppressants, the dialysis—”

“Resources are for those who can afford them, not charity cases.” Dr. Strauss stepped into the room, his polished shoes clicking against the floor. “The Veymar family has withdrawn all financial support. Without a guarantor, your sister’s treatment is terminated.”

The words hit Rohen like physical blows. “You can’t—”

“I can, and I have.” Dr. Strauss made a notation on his clipboard. “Security will be here shortly to facilitate the discharge.”

“Discharge?” Rohen moved between the doctor and his sister’s bed. “She can’t be moved. She’s barely conscious—”

“Then I suggest you make arrangements for her care elsewhere.”

The door opened again. Two security guards entered, broad-shouldered men in navy uniforms with radios clipped to their belts. Behind them, a nurse wheeled in a gurney, her face carefully blank.

Rohen’s heart hammered against his ribs. “No. No, you can’t do this.”

“Sir, please step aside.” One of the guards moved forward, hand outstretched.

In the hallway, Rohen could see faces pressed against the observation window. Nurses, visitors, other patients’ families—all watching the spectacle. Some whispered behind their hands. Others didn’t bother hiding their contempt.

“That’s the valet,” someone muttered. “Heard he couldn’t even afford the co-pay.”

“Pathetic.”

Dr. Strauss checked his watch. “Mr. Ashtekar, you’re making this more difficult than it needs to be. Your sister will be removed from this facility whether you cooperate or not.”

The nurse began disconnecting Mira’s IV lines with practiced efficiency. Mira stirred, her eyelids fluttering, a weak sound escaping her lips.

“Rohen?”

Her voice, so small, so fragile, nearly broke him.

“I’m here.” He grabbed her hand, felt how cold her fingers were. “I’m here, Mira.”

The security guards moved closer. One of them reached for Rohen’s shoulder.

“Sir—”

“Don’t touch me.” Rohen’s voice cracked. He looked down at his sister, at her pale face and trembling lips, and felt utterly, completely helpless. “Please. She’s just a kid. She hasn’t done anything to deserve this.”

Dr. Strauss’s expression didn’t change. “Life isn’t fair, Mr. Ashtekar. The sooner you learn that, the better.”

The guards grabbed Rohen’s arms, pulling him back. He tried to resist, but they were stronger, trained for this. The nurse lifted Mira with surprising gentleness, transferring her to the gurney. Mira’s eyes found Rohen’s, wide and terrified.

“Rohen, I’m scared—”

“It’s okay.” The lie tasted like ash. “It’s going to be okay.”

The guards hauled him toward the door. The crowd in the hallway parted, their faces a blur of judgment and pity. Someone laughed as Rohen struggled against the security guards’ grip.

They were going to throw her out onto the street. His baby sister, dying, with nowhere to go and no way to help her.

This was the end.

Then the elevator doors at the end of the hall opened.

A man stepped out—tall, distinguished, wearing an expensive charcoal suit that looked like it cost more than Rohen earned in a year. His hair was silver at the top, his posture military-straight. He moved with the kind of quiet authority that made people step aside without thinking.

His eyes locked onto the scene: Rohen held by security, Mira on the gurney, Dr. Strauss watching with clinical detachment.

The man’s expression hardened.

“Stop.”

The single word cut through the chaos. The guards froze. The nurse’s hands stilled on the gurney. Even the whispers in the hallway died.

The man strode forward, his footsteps echoing. “You will not remove this patient.”

Dr. Strauss blinked, then his face twisted with indignation. “Excuse me? Who do you think—”

“Release them both, now!”

Something in the man’s voice—the absolute certainty, the unshakable command, made the guards’ hands loosen on Rohen’s arms. They stepped back, uncertain.

Dr. Strauss recovered his composure, drawing himself up. “Sir, I don’t know who you are, but this is a medical facility with protocols and—”

“And I’m sure those protocols don’t include assaulting patients and their families.”

A few people in the crowd snickered. Dr. Strauss’s face flushed red.

“This man owes the hospital over two hundred thousand dollars in unpaid—”

“Did I ask for a financial report?” The stranger’s voice remained calm, but there was steel beneath it. “I told you to release them.”

“Security, remove this man as well,” Dr. Strauss snapped.

The guards glanced at each other, unsure of what to do. The atmosphere had changed. It felt tight and uneasy, like everyone was waiting for something to happen.

Then another voice called from the elevator: “Dr. Strauss!”

Dr. Callum Reeves, the hospital’s director, emerged at a near-run, his face pale. He was breathing hard, his expensive suit rumpled like he’d been pulled from a meeting. His eyes went straight to the man in charcoal.

And he bowed.

Not a polite nod but a deep, deferential bow that made everyone in the hallway stare.

“Mr. Armitage.” Reeves’s voice shook. “I—we didn’t know you were coming. Please, forgive the—”

“The what?” Lucien Armitage’s gaze remained fixed on Dr. Strauss. “The appalling treatment of a critically ill patient? The complete absence of basic human decency?”

Reeves turned to Dr. Strauss, and the fury in his eyes was absolute. “What have you done?”

Dr. Strauss opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “The patient’s funding was withdrawn. I was following standard—”

“Get out of my sight,” Reeves hissed. “Before I have security escort you out permanently.”

Armitage moved past them both, approaching Mira’s gurney. He looked down at her with something like compassion, then turned to Rohen.

“Is this your sister?”

Rohen could barely speak. “Yes.”

“She’ll be transferred to the VIP wing immediately,” Armitage said, addressing Reeves. “I want the nation’s top specialists brought in for consultation. Spare no expense.”

“Of course, Mr. Armitage. Right away.” Reeves snapped his fingers at the nurse. “VIP suite seven. Now.”

The nurse nodded frantically and began wheeling Mira toward the elevator. Rohen moved to follow, but his legs felt weak, his mind struggling to process what had just happened.