At a rather calm section of Crescent City, there is a hospital that is quite popular amongst the citizens of the city and beyond.
St. Patrick's Hospital.
And this St. Patrick's Hospital rose from the city like a monument to virtue.
White stone. Glass walls polished to a sterile gleam. A massive steel cross stood near the entrance, illuminated softly despite the overcast sky, as if even the weather was reluctant to stain the place.
Riley stepped out of the car and paused.
The smell hit him first—not blood, not rot—but antiseptic and cleanliness. The scent of order. Of rules. Of a place where suffering was meant to end, not begin.
People moved in and out of the building in steady streams. Nurses in pale-blue scrubs laughed softly as they crossed the courtyard. A volunteer helped an elderly man into a wheelchair, her hand gentle, patient. A young mother held a sleeping child close as she spoke to a doctor, relief evident in her trembling smile.
