Chapter 2: Rayne Clinic
Morning light filtered through the gaps in the venetian blinds, falling in patches onto a ledger stained yellow with coffee rings.
The air was thick with the mixed scent of rubbing alcohol and coffee, stale and weary.
When Ethan Rayne pushed the door open, he heard the crisp "ding—" of the bell, and saw Mary Mason hunched behind the counter, flipping through paperwork.
She wore a grey-white coat, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her dark hair neatly tied back, and her fingers long and slender. She looked less like a doctor and more like an artist preparing to dissect the world.
Ethan Rayne greeted her, "Morning. No classes today?"
"Only the morning's free." Mary Mason didn't look up. "Bad news: we owe the pharmacy three grand, and Con Ed just sent the electric bill."
"And the good news?"
"The Health Department hasn't shut us down yet."
Ethan Rayne pulled two Starbucks cups from his bag and placed them on the counter.
"A reward for coming in to work on your only half-day off."
Mary Mason took the cup and sipped it. "This is a meaningless bribe. I'm still charging you eighty bucks."
She had originally agreed on twenty dollars an hour, but Ethan Rayne found the calculation tedious, so they settled on eighty dollars for morning shifts, eighty for afternoons, and eighty for evenings. It sounded like more than twenty an hour, but it was practically minimum wage for a medical student intern.
"Eighty dollars for a wonderful morning! That's a steal!"
Piled on the counter were several patient charts, a few receipts, and a newly purchased Littmann stethoscope.
Mary Mason opened the ledger, her fingertip tracing the numbers.
"You are five days away from bankruptcy," she said flatly.
"That's two more days than I expected." Ethan Rayne smiled. "Don't you think that's progress?"
"Progress? The last time you said 'progress,' this place nearly got shut down by the Department of Health."
"That just proves I'm an optimist, at least."
Mary Mason couldn't help but roll her eyes.
She had never believed in divine intervention, and certainly didn't believe "optimism" could pay the rent.
The two sat down together to drink coffee.
"Before you got here, I saw two patients," Mary Mason mentioned, seeming to perk up a bit when talking about cases. "One cracked his head open in a bar fight, and the other got his foot crushed in a construction accident."
Ethan Rayne: "Wow! If you work a little harder, I might be able to hire a nurse now."
Mary Mason: "You can barely afford my salary, and you want to hire a nurse? Also, why is it my job to work harder?"
"I'm working hard, too." Ethan Rayne leaned against the doorframe, examining the flickering overhead fluorescent. "But if that light keeps flickering like that, I think we might both need to see an ophthalmologist."
"Ding—" The doorbell suddenly chimed, interrupting their coffee break.
A young UPS deliveryman entered, clutching his arm, pain etched on his face.
"Sorry, I got injured... I heard this place doesn't charge an arm and a leg."
"Lie down on the exam table." Mary Mason stood quickly.
Ethan Rayne pulled on nitrile gloves and walked over, asking, "How did it happen?"
"Cut myself on a box cutter while opening packages."
"Typical laceration," Mary Mason said while examining the wound. "Shallow cut, no stitches needed, just cleaning and bandaging."
She cleaned, bandaged, and applied antibiotic ointment in one smooth motion.
Ethan Rayne assisted by handing her supplies and cutting medical tape, playing the role of a competent assistant.
Five minutes later, the patient sat up, lightly touched his neatly wrapped arm, and looked visibly relieved.
"How much do I owe?" He pulled out his wallet, revealing crumpled singles and fives inside.
"Twenty dollars," Mary Mason quoted a compromise price.
"Seriously? Doc, you're a lifesaver."
"Well, feel free to come back next time you need patching up!"
The deliveryman thanked them and walked out briskly.
Mary Mason put the twenty in the cash register. "See? This is our most common case—the working poor who can't afford insurance."
Ethan Rayne: "Our reputation is growing, and haven't you noticed? They actually trust us."
Mary Mason snorted. "Or they're just desperate and broke."
"There is only one disease in this world: poverty." Ethan Rayne inexplicably recalled a quote he'd once heard.
Mary Mason: "If poverty is a disease, then we're both terminally ill! And this disease is contagious! Your bleeding heart is gonna get us shut down!"
"Don't worry, I'll give you severance pay before we fold."
Mary Mason glared at him, but couldn't suppress a smile.
Just as they were about to clear the counter, the door was violently shoved open, and a middle-aged man stumbled in, both hands pressed tightly against his abdomen, blood seeping through his fingers.
His voice was hoarse: "Doc—help... help me—"
Before he could finish, he collapsed onto the linoleum floor.
"We've got a trauma case!" Mary Mason's voice and actions kicked in simultaneously. She dropped to check his vitals. "Weak pulse, low blood pressure, possible hemorrhagic shock from abdominal trauma. Ethan, lock the door and get the trauma kit!"
"On it!" Ethan Rayne immediately snapped on fresh gloves, pulled down the blinds, and flipped the "Open" sign to "Closed."
The atmosphere instantly shifted to high alert.
The man's shirt was soaked dark red with blood, and there was a clean, roughly six-inch-long gash across his abdomen.
Mary Mason's breath caught when she saw the wound. "Knife wound... definitely not a work accident. Looks like he got shanked."
"Estimated blood loss of six to seven hundred milliliters, early shock symptoms," Ethan Rayne assessed.
The metallic smell of blood was overwhelming, making their throats tighten.
They worked together to lift him onto the exam table. The patient was barely conscious, his breathing shallow, and his skin already pale from blood loss.
Mary Mason quickly checked his pupil reflex. "Altered mental status, BP eighty over forty, thready pulse—we need to control bleeding and close this wound immediately."
"Got it." Ethan Rayne adjusted the overhead surgical lamp and handed her hemostats, suture needles, and thread.
The light illuminated the patient, his pale skin appearing almost translucent.
Mary Mason ripped open sterile gauze in one fluid motion. "Betadine—"
"Here."
Mary Mason bit her lip, her fingers trembling slightly, but her movements remained precise: wound debridement, pressure hemostasis, and suturing the laceration.
The sound of the curved needle piercing skin was particularly jarring in the small exam room.
Ethan Rayne handed her fresh instruments, gauze pads, and alcohol wipes.
"Pulse is dropping," he reported, frowning at the portable monitor.
"He's not gonna make it like this." Mary Mason gritted her teeth. "I need to work faster."
She accelerated her suturing rhythm. Blood continued to seep out, staining her white nitrile gloves crimson.
"Respirations are weak," Ethan Rayne reported. "BP just dropped below seventy systolic."
"Damn it—" Panic entered Mary Mason's voice for the first time. "He's crashing!"
The fluorescent lamp flickered, and Ethan Rayne's hand subtly pressed against the patient's sternum.
He murmured softly, like reciting a prayer no one could hear.
There seemed to be an unusual shift in the air, and a faint golden glow emanated from his palm—extremely subtle and brief, like the first ray of dawn breaking through darkness.
Mary Mason was laser-focused on the suturing, while Ethan Rayne simply lowered his eyes, his expression calm.
Mary Mason didn't notice that Ethan Rayne's fingertips were still slightly warm—the light had vanished, but residual heat remained.
A few seconds later, the heart rate slowly recovered, climbing from forty beats per minute to fifty, then sixty.
Mary Mason paused, hardly daring to believe it. "Blood pressure... it's rising?"
"Is it? The IV glucose must be kicking in."
"That fast?"
"Sugar's basically magic."
Mary Mason didn't have time to question it; she quickly completed the final sutures, knotting and dressing the wound, her movements clean and efficient.
"Bleeding is controlled. He's temporarily stabilized."
Ethan Rayne reached out and steadied her shoulder, helping her sit down in a chair. "Well done, Dr. Mason."
She stripped off her gloves and let out a long breath. "By all rights, he should be monitored for at least six hours post-trauma."
"The problem is, we don't exactly have an observation unit." Ethan Rayne smiled. "But it's fine, he probably won't complain."
The air still reeked of blood and iodine, but the clinic returned to relative silence.
The patient's breathing became steady, and his face regained some color.
Mary Mason leaned over to check his status. Her heart was still racing, and she couldn't help but whisper, "This is bizarre. He was barely breathing a minute ago."
Ethan Rayne: "Medicine has its share of miracles."
As Mary Mason checked his blood pressure again, the patient's hand suddenly twitched.
Immediately after, he let out a muffled groan.
"He's waking up?" Mary Mason was stunned.
The man struggled to open his eyes, forcing out a hoarse sentence: "I... I didn't die?"
"Almost did," Mary Mason said. "Five more minutes and you'd have been a case study in trauma management failure."
The man blinked, recovered his bearings, and tried to sit up, but Mary Mason firmly pressed him back down.
"Don't move. You just got twelve stitches in your abdomen."
"I... I don't feel that bad actually."
Ethan Rayne leaned closer. "I have to tell you, that wasn't just a scratch. You need to listen to the doctor."
The man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "But I really... feel okay. No dizziness, and I can move everything."
Mary Mason frowned. "That's not medically possible."
"Maybe he has a naturally high healing factor," Ethan Rayne said earnestly. "Some people just bounce back faster."
Mary Mason shot him a skeptical look. She had personally watched the man lose consciousness and his pulse weaken to critical levels, yet now he acted like he'd just had a minor procedure.
The man took a few breaths and suddenly pushed himself upright. His movements were slow but steady.
He looked down at his bandaged abdomen—the gauze was fresh and dry, with minimal visible bloodstaining.
"You guys... are amazing!" he chuckled hoarsely. "I need to get out of here."
"Leave? Are you kidding me?" Mary Mason couldn't help but raise her voice. "You need at least forty-eight hours of observation for an injury like that!"
"I can't stay." The man shook his head. "They'll come looking for me. Staying here will only put you both in danger."
As he spoke, he pulled out a stack of crumpled cash and pushed it onto the counter.
"This is for the treatment, and... thank you for saving my life."
Mary Mason tried to stop him, but Ethan Rayne gently touched her wrist.
"It's okay," he whispered. "Let him go."
Mary Mason looked at the man's complexion, then at his surprisingly steady gait—he truly didn't look like a patient who had lost over a pint of blood.
As the man reached the door, he looked back at them.
"If I get the chance in the future, I'll come back here."
"You're welcome anytime," Ethan Rayne replied.
The man smiled and disappeared into the Brooklyn sunlight.
The moment the door closed, silence returned to the clinic.
Mary Mason stared at the empty doorway, her brow furrowing deeper. "That is medically impossible. He just had twelve stitches, and he walked out under his own power?"
Ethan Rayne leaned against the doorframe, casually sipping his now-cold coffee. "I told you—sugar's basically magic."
"Ethan, I'm serious."
"So am I." He smiled. "But—maybe he's just a very lucky guy."
—Target Status Update: "Renew" effect has dissipated.
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