Chapter 2 Near-miss setup

The coffee in the fourth-floor break room was legendarily terrible, which was precisely why Heaven Wilson chose it as her sanctuary at 2:17 AM.

She sat alone at the scratched plastic table, her anatomy textbook spread before her like a map to territories she'd already conquered. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead with the persistence of mechanical insects, casting everything in a harsh, honest glow that stripped away pretense. Around her, the hospital breathed with its nocturnal rhythm-the distant beep of monitors, the whispered conversations of night shift nurses, the occasional code blue that sent bodies racing through corridors.

Heaven preferred the night shift. Fewer people meant fewer complications, fewer forced smiles, fewer opportunities for her carefully constructed walls to be tested.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus again: Dad broke another glass. Mom's crying in the bathroom. When are you coming home?

Heaven's fingers hovered over the keyboard for thirty-seven seconds-she counted-before she typed back: Focus on your homework. I'll handle Dad.

Another message- How? You're never here.

The accusation hit like a scalpel between ribs, precise and deep. Heaven deleted her brother's message and returned to her textbook, but the words blurred together. She knew every muscle, every nerve, every vessel in the human body, could recite their functions like poetry. But understanding her own family remained as foreign as performing surgery blindfolded.

"Excuse me." The voice belonged to Dr. Sarah Chen, one of the second-year residents. She approached Heaven's table with the hesitant gait of someone walking into a lion's den. "I hate to bother you, but we've got a situation in the ER."

Heaven looked up, her expression neutral as Switzerland. "I'm not on rotation tonight."

"I know, but..." Dr. Chen shifted uncomfortably. "There's a patient, complications from what should have been routine gallbladder surgery yesterday. Dr. Martinez is in surgery, and Dr. Patel is with the trauma that just came in. The family is asking questions we can't answer, and they specifically requested 'that brilliant fourth-year student who was in the OR yesterday.'"

Heaven closed her textbook with surgical precision. She'd assisted in seventeen gallbladder surgeries this month. Each one should have been routine. That word-complications-was a wolf in sheep's clothing, promising complexity wrapped in medical euphemism.

"What kind of complications?"

"Post-operative bleeding. We got it under control, but..." Dr. Chen lowered her voice. "The patient is asking about things that don't make sense. Claiming he remembers conversations from during the surgery. Things that weren't said."

Heaven's spine straightened imperceptibly. Anesthesia awareness was rare but not impossible-patients sometimes retained fragments of consciousness despite being under general anesthesia. But if the patient was claiming to remember conversations that didn't happen...

"I'll be down in five minutes," Heaven said, already gathering her belongings.

As Dr. Chen retreated, Heaven caught fragments of a conversation from the hallway-two nurses discussing the morning's entertainment.

"Did you see that Callahan boy's performance in the lobby? I swear, that family produces nothing but drama."

"At least this one's entertaining. Did you know his father owns half the pharmaceutical companies that supply this hospital? Kid could probably buy the place if he wanted to."

"Money doesn't make you a good doctor. Remember what happened with his cousin at Johns Hopkins? Whole family thinks they can charm their way through medical school."

Heaven's jaw tightened. She'd heard whispers about Draven Callahan-the first-year with the famous name and the reckless attitude. Everything she despised about entitled students who thought medical school was just another networking opportunity. She'd never met him, but his reputation preceded him like smoke before fire.

She made her way to the elevator, her mind already shifting to the patient waiting in the ER. Complications. The word followed her down four floors like a shadow.

------------------------------------------------------------

Draven Callahan was having the kind of night that made him question his life choices, which, admittedly, happened more often than he cared to admit.

He sat in the hospital's 24-hour cafeteria at 2:23 AM, surrounded by medical textbooks that seemed to mock him with their impossible complexity. Pharmacology equations swam before his eyes like hieroglyphics, each symbol a reminder that knowing how to charm people at cocktail parties didn't translate to understanding drug interactions.

His phone rang. The display showed "Mother"-never "Mom," always the formal distance of "Mother"-and Draven let it go to voicemail. He already knew what she'd say. Something about the "incident" at the hospital lobby reaching the wrong ears, about maintaining the family image, about how his behavior reflected on the Callahan name.

The voicemail notification appeared thirty seconds later. Against his better judgment, he played it.

"Draven, darling, Mrs. Henderson saw a video of your... performance... at the hospital. Really, sweetheart, I know you think you're being charming, but people are watching. They're always watching. Your father has worked too hard building our reputation for you to-"

He deleted it mid-sentence.

The cafeteria around him was nearly empty except for a few exhausted residents grabbing coffee between rounds. Draven had chosen the most isolated table, partly for privacy and partly because he was tired of being recognized. Being a Callahan meant being public property, and he was discovering that medical school offered no sanctuary from his family's shadow.

"Rough night?" The voice belonged to Jake Morrison, a second-year student who'd been friendly enough to overlook Draven's last name. He slid into the opposite chair without invitation, carrying two cups of coffee that looked strong enough to resurrect the dead.

"Just communing with the mysteries of pharmacokinetics," Draven said, accepting the offered coffee gratefully. "Apparently, my brain wasn't designed to remember whether drugs are metabolized by the liver or kidneys."

"Both, usually. Medicine's like that-nothing's ever simple." Jake glanced at Draven's textbooks, then leaned back in his chair. "You know, you might want to talk to Heaven Wilson. Fourth-year, brilliant as hell. She helps students with their doubts and teach them."

Draven had heard the name whispered in lecture halls and hospital corridors, always with the kind of reverence usually reserved for surgical instruments or patron saints. Heaven Wilson-the untouchable genius who could diagnose complex cases before most students had finished reading the symptoms.

"Isn't she the one who never talks to anyone?" Draven asked.

"That's the one. Ice queen with a brain like a computer. But if you can convince her to help you, you'll actually understand this stuff instead of just memorizing it." Jake paused, studying Draven's expression. "Although, fair warning-she's got zero patience for people who aren't serious about medicine. And your reputation..."

"What about my reputation?"

Jake's grin was sympathetic but honest. "Let's just say circus performances in hospital lobbies don't exactly scream 'dedicated medical professional.'"

Draven felt something twist in his chest-part frustration, part recognition. Even here, even when he was genuinely trying to prove himself, his past followed him like a loyal dog. Every joke, every moment of levity, every attempt to be human instead of perfect was catalogued and used as evidence against his character.

"Maybe that's the problem," Draven said quietly. "Everyone expects me to be either a clown or a saint. No one considers that I might just be trying to figure out how to be a doctor."

Jake's expression softened. "For what it's worth, I think you've got potential. You ask good questions in class, even if you do it while making half the room laugh. And you care about patients-I've seen you with them."

Before Draven could respond, his phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: If you want to be in study group. Tomorrow library at 6am.

Jake peered at the screen and whistled low. "Well, I'll be damned. You are just invited to a study group. You know what this means?"

"What?"

"That," Jake grinned, "You can take help from Heaven Wilson. Everyone knows her where she sits to study or teach, and this group update the place and timing of her."

Draven stared at the message, reading it three times. Six hours until he'd meet the legendary Heaven Wilson face to face. Six hours to prepare for what would either be his academic salvation or his complete humiliation.

Either way, it would definitely be interesting.

He gathered his books, drained his coffee, and headed for the elevator. As the doors closed, Draven caught his reflection in the polished steel-rumpled scrubs, tired eyes, but something new in his expression. Determination, maybe. Or desperation.

Sometimes, he was learning, those two things looked remarkably similar.

The elevator carried him toward whatever passed for sleep these days, but his mind was already racing ahead to 6 AM, when he'd finally come face to face with the woman whose reputation preceded her like thunder before lightning.

Heaven Wilson. The name felt dangerous on his tongue, full of sharp edges and unspoken challenges.

He couldn't wait to meet her.