CHAPTER FOUR:UNDER OBSERVATION

Chapter 4: Under Observation

“Or perhaps they become monsters because everyone was right.”

I must have re-read that line a dozen times before finally snapping my notebook shut.

The pencil marks hadn't faded overnight, and neither had the uneasy feeling they left behind.

I’d spent most of the morning trying to persuade myself it was just a throwaway comment—some stranger’s random reaction to my own notes.

Nothing to lose sleep over.

But the thought just wouldn't stick.

With a quiet sigh, I crammed the notebook into my bag and headed across the hospital courtyard.

The late afternoon sun hung over the teaching hospital, warming the concrete paths that crisscrossed between the academic block and the main wards.

The sweet smell of blooming frangipani filled the air, occasionally cut by the roar of city buses beyond the gates and the faint, distant siren of an ambulance pulling into A&E.

Finding my usual spot beneath the old neem tree, I spread a deck of pharmacology flashcards across my lap.

Beta-blockers.

Propranolol.

Atenolol.

Metoprolol.

I found myself staring blankly at the exact same card for a full minute, the ink blurring into a total fog.

"Or perhaps they become monsters because everyone was right."

"This is getting ridiculous," I muttered, tossing the card onto the pile with a soft groan.

"Talking to the flashcards again?"

I glanced up to see Daniel Kohn standing a few paces away. He had one eyebrow raised, his backpack slung casually over a single shoulder.

"You've been glaring at that exact same card since I walked out here."

"I have not."

"You definitely have."

"I was just thinking."

"Right." He dropped onto the bench next to me.

"Looks to me like you're losing an argument with a piece of paper."

I tried and failed to hide a grin.

"It was winning."

"It usually does." He picked up a card, feigning deep concentration. "'

"List three contraindications for beta-blockers,'" he read out with dramatic gravity.

"Heavy stuff."

I laughed. "Mock all you want, but you'll be begging to see these before finals."

"Nah, I'll just borrow your brain."

"My brain went on strike an hour ago."

"Yeah, I can tell." He passed the card back, his playful tone shifting slightly as he tilted his head.

"Alright, what’s actually going on?"

I opened my mouth to brush it off, then hesitated.

"Nothing."

"Alora." He gave me that familiar, penetrating look he'd perfected over the years—the one that saw right through whatever defense I put up.

"I know your 'nothing' face."

"I don't have a 'nothing' face."

"You have about three of them."

I let out a long breath. "I'm just exhausted."

"Progress."

"I didn't admit to anything."

"You admitted enough."

Daniel had been in my life for so long now that I could barely remember a time he wasn't there.

Back in our first week of anatomy, when I nearly passed out cold over a cadaver, he’d quietly handed me a water bottle and cracked terrible jokes for an hour until the color came back to my face.

Then in second year, when my mother called to say my little brother had been rushed to the hospital, I completely fell apart two days before our biochemistry exam.

Daniel stayed up until three in the morning, running me through lecture slides over endless cups of terrible vending-machine coffee.

He never brought it up again, and he never made me feel like I owed him a thing. He was just... there.

Constant, patient, and solid. In a life that felt like it was shifting every single day, Daniel was one of the few anchors I had left.

"So," he said, cutting into my thoughts, "are you eating actual food today, or is photosynthesis your new study plan?"

"I had breakfast."

"A coffee isn't breakfast."

"It is if you have enough faith."

He reached into his bag and dropped a granola bar onto my lap.

"Thought so."

I looked down at the bar, then up at him. "Do you just carry emergency rations now?"

"I carry emergency Alora rations."

I couldn't help but laugh

"You're unbelievable."

"So I've been told."

"Yet you keep hanging around."

"Someone has to keep you alive."

The words were playful enough, but his smile dropped just a fraction. For a split second, his look turned soft and quiet—the kind of look I always made a point to ignore.

I quickly tore into the wrapper.

"There we go," he said with mock triumph. "The future doctor survives another hour."

"Your standards for me are shockingly low."

"My standards are practical."

I rolled my eyes and took another bite. But as I reached back down for my notes, the tubing of my stethoscope slipped off my shoulder, tangling around itself.

Daniel chuckled softly. "That thing has an attitude."

"It's a personal feud."

"Hold still a second." He leaned in, untangling the rubber tubing and settling it back over my collar.

"Fixed."

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

Before I could say anything else, the mood in the courtyard suddenly shifted.

It wasn't loud,

just an unmistakable drop in the ambient noise. Nearby conversations quieted down, a couple of junior residents straightened their shoulders, and crisp, rhythmic footsteps echoed across the paving stones.

Daniel looked up first, and my eyes followed his.

Dr. Dominic Reid was crossing the courtyard. He had three consultants and two senior residents in tow, deep in discussion over a heavy stack of charts. He didn't slow his stride or acknowledge the students scattered around the benches.

Except, for a fraction of a second, his eyes shifted.

His gaze brushed over us—over Daniel, over me, and right down to Daniel’s hand where it was still letting go of my stethoscope strap.

Then, as if he hadn't seen a thing, he looked away.

The conversation with his team didn't miss a beat, nor did his pace.

Within moments, the whole group had vanished through the glass doors of the surgical block.

Daniel let out a breath he'd been holding. "I don't know how one guy can make an open courtyard feel like an oral exam."

A small smile tugged at my mouth. "Pretty sure that's his natural talent."

Daniel caught my expression and gave me a sideways look. "You really respect him, don't you?"

"I respect how good he is."

"That's not quite what I asked."

"It's the answer you get."

He watched me for a moment longer, then stood up and stretched. "Come on."

"Where?"

"If I leave you here, you're just going to go back to fighting with your flashcards."

"I make no promises."

"You never do."

We walked toward the main doors together.

Neither of us noticed the dark reflection on the surgical block's glass doors behind us, watching the courtyard like a quiet mirror.

The rest of the afternoon dissolved into a hazy blur of ward rounds, bedside teaching, and rushed notes jotted down between patients. But no matter how hard I pushed myself to focus, my mind kept drifting off course.

It wasn't even the notebook or that scribbled sentence in the margin holding my attention.

It was the way Dr. Reid had looked at us. He hadn't looked angry or disapproving. Just... watchful. It shouldn't have meant a thing, but the memory refused to settle.

By five forty-five, I was standing back in the quiet hallway of the VIP wing.

It was a completely different world from the main hospital—far removed from the squeak of stretcher wheels and running staff.

Clean tile reflected the soft lights overhead, and the air smelled heavily of fresh antiseptic.

I checked my watch: 5:46 p.m.

Early. Good. I wasn't about to push my luck with him twice in one week.

Taking a deep breath to settle my nerves, I knocked.

"Come in."

The office was unchanged. Floor-to-ceiling glass opened out to the distant city skyline, and the long wall of bookshelves remained packed with surgical texts, journals, and massive atlases that clearly saw real use.

A bright light board illuminated a fresh set of CT scans, and Dr. Reid was standing right in front of them with one hand resting in his pocket.

He didn't turn around immediately.

"The replacement article."

No greeting, no pleasantries.

I stepped forward and placed the fresh printout on his desk.

"I double-checked the source and journal volume this time."

"I assumed you would."

Only then did he turn to face me, taking the paper from the desk without another word.

For a long, quiet stretch, the only sound in the office was the crisp turn of paper.

I stood rooted to the spot, hands tucked behind my back, trying my best not to fidget.

His eyes moved across the lines quickly—not skimming, but reading with intense focus.

Every few paragraphs, he'd make a swift note in the margin with a pencil. Nothing got past him.

Finally, he closed the folder. "This is significantly better."

I blinked, caught slightly off guard. "...Sir?"

"Your work," he said, sliding the folder into a neat pile. "It's improving."

I wasn't sure what caught me more by surprise—the actual compliment, or the simple fact that he'd bothered to say it.

"Thank you, sir."

A calm silence settled over the room. He wasn't looking at me anymore, already pulling another patient file toward him. I hovered there for a second, unsure if that was my cue to leave, when he spoke up again.

"Miss Vale."

"Sir?"

He kept his eyes on the chart. "Don't let yourself get distracted."

That was it. No explanation, no further context—just a single, quiet warning.

A faint frown slipped onto my face before I could stop it. "Distracted...?"

He finally looked up, his full, sharp attention locking onto me for the first time since I'd walked in.

"Your academic record is the reason you're standing in this office," he said smoothly. "Don't let anything compromise that."

The weight behind his words made me hold my breath.

Anything.

What was he actually referring to? The mountain of coursework? The brutal hours? Medical school in general?

Or was it something else entirely?

"You're dismissed."

The dismissal was quiet and casual. By the time I turned toward the door, he was already back to reviewing his file.

"Good evening, sir."

He gave a tiny nod, not looking up.

I stepped out into the quiet corridor, the heavy door shutting with a soft click behind me. As I walked down toward the elevators, his words kept repeating in my head.

Don't let yourself get distracted.

Distracted by what? By Daniel? By that mysterious notebook? Or just my own endless overthinking? I didn't have an answer, and the sheer uncertainty of it annoyed me more than a direct reprimand ever could.

By the time I made it back to my hostel room, the light outside had faded into a soft purple dusk.

Cassie wasn't back yet, and for once, I was glad for the quiet.

I kicked off my shoes, swapped my scrub top for an oversized T-shirt, pulled my hair into a messy bun, and collapsed onto the bed.

My notebook was sitting right there on the nightstand. My hand drifted toward it for a second, then stopped. Instead, I pulled open the small drawer underneath and brought out a battered paperback with a worn black cover.

**A Crown of Ash and Shadows**

Anyone from my class would have laughed if they caught me with it.

A top scholarship student, a senior med student obsessed with surgical procedures and pharmacology by day... secretly escaping into fantasy romance by night.

It had been my guilty pleasure for years.

Ten pages, maybe twenty—just enough to turn off the medical noise in my head before sleep.

Medicine was teaching me how to keep a body alive, but stories reminded me why life was worth living in the first place.

I curled up under the blanket and flipped to my bookmark.

The chapter opened right in the middle of a kingdom preparing for war. I couldn't help but smile—classic author move, mixing high-stakes politics into a slow-burn romance.

Twenty minutes melted away before I even noticed the time. Reluctantly, I marked the page and shut the book.

Out of habit, I reached back for my notebook.

The pages were already crammed with my usual chaotic scribbles—random observations, questions, and heated arguments with fictional characters who couldn't talk back.

I picked up a pencil and wrote down a fresh thought beneath tonight's entry:

Sometimes the people who are feared the most spend the longest convincing themselves they deserve it.

I stopped and read the words back to myself, then slowly closed my eyes.

An unwelcome memory flashed into my mind—that precise line written in dark pencil beneath my own handwriting:

Or perhaps they become monsters because everyone was right.

I closed the notebook and set it down, no closer to figuring him out than I was yesterday.

Across the city...

Dominic Reid turned the key in his front door and stepped inside.

He was met with absolute silence—not a comfortable, quiet home silence, but something stiff and wrong.

He loosened his necktie as he crossed the foyer, noticing the warm light spilling from his study.

He was positive he'd switched that light off before leaving this morning.

His pace slowed. The study door was resting slightly open, though he distinctly remembered shutting it full.

Standing in the doorway, his eyes swept the room with practiced precision.

The tall bookshelves, the desk, the heavy curtains.

Everything looked untouched.

Almost.

On the corner of his dark wood desk, a leather folder was sitting roughly half an inch off from where he always kept it.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Keeping his eyes fixed on the room, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone, dialing a number from memory.

The call picked up on the second ring.

"I need you to check the security feeds and find out who was inside my house today," he said, his tone even.

A brief pause followed on the other end. Dominic’s expression didn't shift an inch.

"And do not mention this to my mother"