The Clinic Novels & Stories

“Pinged twice last night. Once near the east docks. Once near a clinic.” My stomach tightens. “What kind of clinic?” “Private,” he says. “Off the books. The kind that doesn’t advertise.” Aksel’s already moving again, faster now. “She wouldn’t go to a clinic.” “She would if she was hurt,” Kavev says quietly. Or if someone wanted her contained. We’re in the car before Trent finishes sending the coordinates. The drive is tense, silent except for the engine and the hum of anticipation. The clinic is smaller than I expect. It's unassuming. A narrow building wedged between a closed laundromat and a pawn shop that looks like it’s been abandoned for years.

"We're going to a more suitable place for your check-up." The black sedan stopped in an industrial district on the edge of the city, a wasteland of abandoned factories and warehouses. The air was thick with the acrid smell of chemicals, a nauseating stench. "What is this place?" "An underground clinic," Claire said, shoving me forward. "It specializes in making problems... disappear." "You didn't really think the family's private hospital would serve someone like you, did you?" Behind a dilapidated iron door was a narrow, dark hallway.

"Roxanne. Glad you could make it." "Evening." I returned with a soft smile. Damien gave him a chin lift in return. "We’ll take a quick look around." The son led us inside the clinic, which had a surprisingly cozy setup with three treatment rooms, an office, a small lobby, and a storage space. Everything smelled like disinfectant and lavender. "This place is nice." I murmured, running my fingers along a wooden cabinet. "We try to keep it humble but organized." The son replied.

"Not well, better. Pleased to meet you, Christie. I still can't believe we've met again. Right, about what you're investigating—my uncle gave me the name of the young lady, and she's in the clinic's database on the date you mentioned." I looked at him in surprise. "She is? What did she do?" The fact of the matter is that's what I still haven't been able to find out. Our clinic is very discreet with confidentiality." He explained and immediately I asked. "What does your clinic specialise in?" "We specialise in cosmetic surgery and more." "Cosmetic surgery? Did Adele undergo cosmetic surgery while my brother was in a coma?" I ask, incredulous, and then the sham

The door was slightly ajar, and as I nudged it open, the scent of antiseptic hit me. It was a small, private clinic. The space was sterile, clinical, and completely out of place compared to the rest of Cristiano’s aesthetic. There was an examination table, medical equipment neatly arranged on shelves, and a cabinet full of supplies. My stomach twisted at it all. “What the hell is this?” I muttered, stepping inside.

Janus asked cautiously. "This clinic isn't for me," Tristan said with a laugh. "It's for my fellow doctors, who may have retired from the hospital but want to continue practicing, or newer doctors who haven't had the opportunity to work at the hospital yet; they can start here." There were about six burly men around the clinic building. They were gathered in front of the building, surrounding a campfire and making a barbecue. They immediately assumed a respectful posture when they saw Tristan and Janus approaching from the back of the building.

“Right. I can find a clinic there. English-speaking staff, discreet intake, no systems that matter.” “I already looked.” I rubbed my thumb along the edge of the phone. “There’s one twenty minutes from here. I booked Thursday.” She nodded. “And the — the other thing. Telling anyone.” I knew what she meant. “No Churchill knows,” I said. “Not yet. Maybe not ever, depending on what the doctor says.” Nora looked like she had more to say about that. She kept it to herself, which I appreciated. Thursday’s clinic was small and quiet, the kind of place that didn’t have its name on a large sign outside. The intake form was two pages. Standard questions, most of which I answered without issue until I r

Chapter 48 Jordan POV Elaina’s clinic didn’t look like what people picture when they hear the word clinic. No dingy waiting room. No stack of outdated magazines. No sad little fish tank with one traumatized goldfish circling the same plastic castle until the end of time. This place looked like a private medical suite you’d find inside a gated community—clean, organized, quiet in a way that made you lower your voice without being told. There was real equipment. Modern monitors. A locked cabinet that screamed controlled substances without a single label needing to be read.

"You sulked for two days." "Didn’t. Saints don’t sulk." He even manages to sound insulted. His pulse is one-twenty-eight. I’ll take it. We hit the outskirts of Norfolk four minutes earlier than expected. Saint has stabilized on the wrong side of good. The clinic is on a side street in a residential neighborhood. It looks like a dentist's office. The sign on the door says SHELDON ORAL SURGERY. The light over the side door is on and the door is unlocked just as Oba promised.

As I stepped outside, the morning air hit me hard, I stood there longer than necessary, steadying myself. This wasn’t panic, it was my body insisting. The clinic was three streets away, tucked between a laundromat and a discount pharmacy. No sign with a name, Just a faded blue cross painted on the glass door. I paused outside and checked my reflection in the window. Hair tied back, Neutral clothes, No jewelry, No makeup. Angela!!! The name sat easily now. Inside, the waiting room smelled like antiseptic and cheap coffee, Plastic chairs lined the walls. A television mounted too high played a morning talk show no one was watching.