The Price Of Hatred

Chapter 6 - No Nice Men Here

The heavy smell of rubbing alcohol and fresh, oxidized blood hung thick in the cramped treatment room. The yellow-tinted fluorescent tubes overhead buzzed with a low, irritating hum that vibrated straight through Todd’s skull. He was sitting on the edge of a cold steel examination table, his boots dangling inches above the linoleum floor. Droplets of sweat broke from his hairline, tracing burning lines through the grime on his temple.

​“Hey, Doctor... please take it easy on me,” Todd said, his voice barely a gravelly rasp. He tried to force a calm tone, but his fingers twitched violently against his thigh as the medical worker prepped her instruments.

​The doctor—a middle-aged woman with sharp, tired eyes and a green surgical mask snapped tightly over her mouth—didn't look up. Her hands were precise, moving over a stainless steel tray with practiced, mechanical coldness. She lifted a pair of long, silver forceps.

​“Two heavy bullets are stuck deep in your arm. If you don't stay completely still right now, you will make it hurt much worse for yourself,” she warned, her foreign accent clipping the words firmly. She glanced up, her gaze locking onto his trembling frame. “So steady your hand.”

​Todd swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. He stared at the gleaming, predatory edge of the metal tools. “Okay... I will.”

​He braced himself, locking his shoulder muscles and gripping the underside of the steel table with his uninjured hand until his knuckles turned a bloodless white. The doctor didn't waste time. She dipped the forceps into the torn, dark flesh of his forearm. Todd’s entire body went rigid. A sharp hiss tore past his clenched teeth, his head snapping back against the wall as he watched the first blood-slick, deformed slug lift out of his skin and drop with a heavy clink into a metal dish.

​Outside in the hallway, the silence was suffocating.

​A row of hard plastic chairs lined the wall opposite the double doors marked Operating Room 32. James sat on the middle one, his long legs stretched out, his upper body slouched in a posture of complete exhaustion. Dried crimson crust covered his palms and stained the sleeves of his dark jacket. He hadn't shifted an inch since they had dragged themselves into the emergency wing.

​His eyes were wide, fixed entirely on the frosted glass panes of the operating doors. Behind them, a digital clock silently counted the seconds. The surgeons had been in there for what felt like eternity, cutting, stitching, and trying to piece back together the shattered body of his sister. Every time a shadow crossed the glass, James’s heart thudded against his ribs, his mind spiraling back to the image of Tidder holding the knife, blood leaking through her fingers, refusing to drop down until the very end.

​The heavy click of a latch broke the silence.

​James didn't move his head, but his eyes tracked the opening door of the treatment room down the hall. Todd stepped out into the corridor. A thick, white layer of gauze was wrapped tightly around his arm, pinned close to his chest like a broken wing. His face looked drained of color, almost ghostly under the harsh lights, but the sharp, calculated fire in his eyes remained intact. He walked slowly, his heavy boots dragging slightly with every step, until he stopped right in front of James.

​James looked up, the rigid armor of his cold exterior finally cracking, revealing the raw guilt hidden underneath. “Hey. Are you okay?”

​Todd let out a dry, hollow chuckle that turned into a grimace as he lowered himself heavily into the plastic chair right beside James. “Does it look like I am?”

​James looked down at his own clean hands, the weight of the night pressing into his chest. “Hey... I'm sorry, Todd. I didn't hear you telling me to turn back there on the road. I was too...”

​“Because you were fucking busy arguing,” Todd interrupted, his low voice cutting like a razor blade through the quiet hallway. There was no shouting, just a dangerous, deep-seated resentment. “You were screaming at her, and I took two goddamn bullets because of it. She took them too. And what about you? Look at yourself. You got none.”

​James didn't fight back. He absorbed the words, his voice dropping into a desperate mumble. “She’s hurt really bad, Todd. I don't even know how many bullets they pulled out of her.” His voice cracked slightly, the iron facade completely vanishing. “She’s... she’s all I’ve got left. She’s my only family.”

​Todd went quiet. The burning anger in his chest softened as he looked at his friend’s broken expression. The shared history of their childhood—the ghosts of the orphanage and the blood they had both waded through—pulled them back together. Todd leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

​“No,” Todd said gently, his tone firm. “You’ve got me. And nothing is going to happen to her. She's too stubborn to die now, she's going to make it.”

​Before James could reply, the pneumatic seal on the operating doors broke open with a loud wheeze.

​The lead surgeon walked out into the corridor, her blue scrubs stained with dark patches and her latex gloves already pulled off, dangling from her fingers. James and Todd scrambled to their feet instantly, their muscles tensing for a fight or a flight. The surgeon paused, her gaze calculating as she took in the appearance of the two young men covered in dirt, grease, and the distinct splatter of gunfire residue. She looked past Todd and fixed her eyes directly on James.

​“You,” she said, her voice carrying a commanding, unyielding weight. “Come with me.”

​James didn't hesitate. He followed her down the winding corridor, his boots clicking against the clean linoleum until they entered her private office. The room smelled of old paper and black coffee. The doctor stepped behind a heavy wooden desk cluttered with medical charts, gesturing with her pen toward the empty chair opposite her. James sat down, his chest tightening so hard he could barely draw a full breath.

​“Who are you to her?” she asked, leaning forward, her elbows resting on the desk.

​“She’s my sister,” James said, his voice raw, stripped of any pretense. “I told you, she’s all I’ve got left in this world.”

​The doctor watched him closely, her eyes narrowing. “What about your father or your mother or any family? Where are they?”

​“We lost them when we were kids, 5,” James replied shortly, his jaw tightening as his internal guard went back up. He didn't want to talk about the blood on his cheek or the empty kitchen from his childhood.

​The doctor’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of human pity crossing her tired features, though she maintained her professional distance. “Oh. I see. That is a terrible amount of pain for you both to carry since you were children. It must had been hard for you”

​“Yeah. Thanks,” James said, his right leg bouncing anxiously against the floor, his eyes constantly darting toward the closed office door. “What about her? Is she going to make it?”

​The doctor went rigid, her pen tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the wood. “How did she get shot, James? Where exactly was she before you brought her into my emergency wing? Because during the operation, we extracted three military-grade FMJ bullets that cut deep inside her organs. Those aren't standard street rounds. They are designed to tear through armor.”

​James’s throat closed up. He shifted in his seat, his voice descending into a low, defensive murmur. “That’s... that’s a big bullet.”

​“Yes, it is,” the doctor said, her voice suddenly losing all warmth, hardening into a block of ice. She stood up from her chair, looking down at him. “And because of the nature of these wounds... I have already called the police. They are on their way to this hospital right now. You will have to stay here right now and when they arrive you will have to explain everything to them.”

The blood completely drained from James’s face. The word cops echoed in his head like a siren. He stood up so violently that the heavy legs of the chair scraped across the floor with a loud, screeching wail.

​“Shit,” James spat, a mixture of panic and boiling rage tightening his features. “You called the fucking cops?”

​“Wait! You cannot leave this room yet!” the doctor warned, her hand reaching rapidly down for the plastic receiver of her desk phone. “Wait”.

​But James was already a blur of motion. He yanked the office door open, slamming it hard behind him as he bolted back into the main hallway. His eyes immediately threw themselves toward the chairs outside Room 32, but his heart dropped. The plastic seats were empty. Todd was gone.

​“Todd? Todd? Todd!” James whispered urgently, his head swinging left and right as he crept down the corridor. “Todd!”.

​Suddenly, a heavy shadow shifted at the far end of the long hallway. The main glass intake doors swung open, and two uniformed police officers stepped into the ward, their utility belts clanking with handcuffs and heavy batons. Their eyes scanned the quiet floor, searching, until they locked directly onto James—standing in the center of the lane, covered in dirt, sweat, and dry blood.

​The officers didn't hesitate; their paces quickened, their boots hitting the floor in a rapid syncopated rhythm.

​James didn't break into a run. He knew the layout of places like this—if he ran, their instincts would scream, and they would draw their weapons. Instead, he forced his lungs to take a slow, deep breath, adjusting the collar of his black jacket. He turned on his heel and walked briskly, with long, deliberate strides, heading straight toward the glowing red neon 'EXIT' sign at the absolute back of the building.

​Behind him, the office door flew open again. The lead doctor rushed out into the corridor, her finger pointing wildly past the officers toward James’s retreating back. “He’s going through the back exit! Right there! The one in the black jacket!”