The Healer of Hollow Street

Chapter 3 — “The Offer”

Rashford stepped into the depot just after sunrise. The air smelled of diesel and wet cardboard. His manager, a thick-set man with a half-chewed pen in his mouth,

looked up from behind the counter. “Cole. My miracle man returns,” the boss said. “Got the city talking.”

“Not my fault everyone’s bored.”

“Funny thing, though.” The man set the pen down. “Company got a call. Said one of our drivers is practicing medicine without a license. That ring a bell?”

Rashford blinked. “You’re serious?”

“As a flat tire. They want distance between us and you, effective immediately.”

“You’re firing me?”

“Call it ‘letting go for public-relations reasons.’”

“I stopped someone from bleeding to death.”

“And you’ve given us more attention than a warehouse fire. Take your last week’s pay and”

“Keep it,” Rashford said. “Wouldn’t want to taint the brand.”

He left the keys on the counter and walked out into the grey drizzle.

Outside, a familiar voice called, “Rough morning?”

Maya Thompson leaned against a lamppost, camera strap slung across her shoulder.

“Do you always stalk your interview subjects?” he asked.

“Only the fascinating ones.”

“Then you’re wasting time.”

“Not according to every newsfeed in London.” She matched his pace as he walked. “They’re calling you the Miracle on Hollow Street.”

“Catchy. Maybe I’ll print T-shirts.”

“You don’t like attention?”

“I don’t like mobs pretending it’s faith when it’s curiosity.”

Maya studied him. “You think they’ll just forget?”

“I’m counting on it.”

They stopped at the corner café. Maya nodded toward the door. “Coffee? My treat. Off record.”

Rashford hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. But if you ask how my hands work, I’m leaving.”

“Deal.”

Inside the café, steam fogged the windows. The smell of burnt beans hung in the air.

Maya slid him a cup. “Your mother doing alright?”

“She’s the one person who doesn’t care if I can glue bones.”

“That’s love.”

“That’s worry.”

She leaned closer. “Tell me about your father.”

He froze mid-sip. “That question’s not off record.”

“I found hospital files, Marcus Cole, unregistered healer, died under investigation for illegal practice.”

He set the cup down hard. “You went digging.”

“I’m a journalist.”

“I’m a delivery man who made a bad headline.”

“Maybe you’re more than that.”

Rashford stood. “Enjoy the coffee.”

Maya’s voice softened. “Rashford, someone will come for you. They did for him.”

He stopped at the door but didn’t turn around. “Then I’ll be ready.” He wasn’t.

When he reached Hollow Street that afternoon, a black sedan idled outside his flat. A man in a charcoal suit stepped out, umbrella already open though the rain had stopped.

“Mr Cole?” the man asked. His voice was calm, practiced.

Rashford kept the gate between them. “Depends who’s asking.”

“My name’s Dempsey. I represent a private medical foundation interested in your… talents.”

“Not interested.”

Dempsey smiled politely. “You haven’t heard the offer.”

“Don’t need to. The last ‘foundation’ that noticed my family buried my father.”

Dempsey’s eyes flickered but his tone stayed smooth. “That’s precisely why we’d like to protect you. London isn’t safe for a man with your abilities.”

“Funny, I felt fine till now.”

The man handed over a sleek card, no logo, just a number. “Call if you change your mind. Opportunities like this don’t knock twice.”

Rashford stared at the card. “You people really like knocking.”

Dempsey gave a courteous nod and stepped back into the car. It rolled away in silence.

He found his mother sitting by the window, knitting needles still in her lap but her eyes distant. “Mum?”

“You spoke with them.”

He froze. “You saw?”

“They came once before, for your father.”

“What did they want then?”

“To make him a promise. He said no.”

“And they killed him?”

She didn’t answer. Evelyn’s hand trembled suddenly, yarn slipping through her fingers. “Rash…”

He was beside her in an instant. Her breathing hitched, uneven. “Mum, stay with me.”

Her eyes fluttered.

Rashford pressed his palms to her chest. The hum inside him roared to life, bright, electric, desperate. “Please,” he whispered.

Light flared beneath his skin, soft and pulsing. Evelyn gasped, color rushing back into her cheeks. He pulled away, shaking. “Mum?”

She blinked, confused but alive. “What happened?”

“Nothing. You fainted.”

“You used it again, didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer. From the street outside came the faint click of a camera shutter. Someone was standing by the lamppost, the same man from the sedan, holding a small device up to the window.

Rashford crossed the room in two strides, yanked the curtain shut, and stared at the floor, pulse hammering. He knew now that the offer wasn’t an invitation. It was a warning.