The Surgeon’s Scars: Running From My Past

The rain in Nanxi City wasn't like the rain in New York. It was a constant, grey mist that soaked into your bones. Adria watched it streak against the window of her taxi as she left Nanxi City International Airport.

It felt right. It felt like the world was crying so she didn't have to.

The hospital had arranged a temporary apartment for her in Belltown. It was modern, sterile, and cold. Adria dropped her bags in the middle of the living room. The silence was absolute.

She walked to the window. The Sky Spire poked through the low-hanging clouds like a syringe.

New city. New life. No Damon.

She took out her phone. She opened her contacts and scrolled to "Damon." Her thumb hovered over the 'Block' button. She held it there for a long time, her heart aching.

She couldn't do it. She hated herself for it, but she couldn't sever the last digital thread. Instead, she edited the name.

Stranger.

She tossed the phone onto the couch and went to unpack.

At a private airfield outside the city, the private jet taxied to a halt. A black SUV was waiting on the tarmac, windshield wipers slapping rhythmically.

Damon descended the stairs, ignoring the umbrella the driver offered. He let the rain hit his face. It cooled the burning rage that had been fueling him for six hours.

"Take me to Headquarters," he said, sliding into the back seat.

An hour later, he was standing in Chief Harrell's office. Harrell was a mountain of a man with a grey mustache. He looked at Damon with skepticism.

"You know they eat captains for breakfast at 19, right?" Harrell asked, handing over a badge.

Damon took the badge. "I'm not hungry."

He drove himself to the station. Station 19 was an old brick building in a rougher part of town. It looked like a fortress.

Inside, the atmosphere was rowdy. In the beanbag room, a group of firefighters were laughing. A young guy, Landon, was doing an impression of a man with a limp.

"And then he said, 'Walk it off!'" Landon crowed. The room erupted in laughter.

The door banged open.

Damon stood there. He was wearing his dress blues, the medals on his chest catching the light. He looked like a recruiting poster for war.

The laughter died instantly.

Damon walked into the room. He didn't smile. He didn't introduce himself. He just scanned them, cataloging weaknesses.

"I'm Captain Hansen," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried to the back of the room. "And this looks like a daycare center, not a fire station."

A burly firefighter crossed his arms. "We heard we were getting a rich kid. Didn't know he came with an attitude."

Damon walked right up to him. He was two inches taller. "Ten minutes. Full gear. Bunker drills."

"It's pouring rain out there," Landon protested.

Damon turned his head slowly. "Does fire take a day off when it rains, probie?"

Silence.

"Move," Damon barked.

They moved.

Damon walked into the Captain's office and shut the door. The blinds were closed. He leaned back against the door, closing his eyes. His hand-the one he had cut-throbbed under the fresh bandage.

He pulled out his phone. He stared at Adria's number.

He wanted to call her. He wanted to tell her he was here, in her city, breathing her air. But fear, cold and unfamiliar, gripped him. If he called, she might run again. And he was running out of places to chase her.

He put the phone down, face down, on the desk.

"Soon," he whispered to the empty room.