The surgeon glanced at the unconscious patientthen suddenly recoiled, his voice sharp: Call the police, now!
The city, shrouded in dark shadows, breathed a heavy, muffled silence, broken only by the distant wail of an ambulance siren. Within the walls of the hospital, where every corridor echoed with the whispers of suffering, a storm raged, no less violent than the tempest outside. The night wasnt just tenseit teetered on the brink of explosion, as if fate itself had decided to test the resolve of those standing guard over life.
In the operating theatre, bathed in the cold, clinical glare of surgical lights, Dr. Edward Whitmorea surgeon with twenty years of experience, a man whose hands had saved hundreds, if not thousandscontinued his battle. For three hours he had stood at the table, unwavering against the relentless march of time. His movements were precise as clockwork, his focus unbroken, as though he were reading not just the anatomy of the body, but the fragile thread between life and death. Exhaustion weighed on him like a leaden cloak, but he knew weakness was a luxury he couldnt afford. Every motion, every decision, carried the weight of gold. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, refusing distraction. Beside him, like a shadow, stood the young nurse Emilysteady, composed, her eyes alight with quiet reverence as she passed instruments not of steel, but of hope.
Sutures, Whitmore murmured, his voice a whisper, yet firm as an edict to fate itself: *Do not yield.*
The operation was nearly over. A few moments more, and the patient would be safe. But then, as though reality itself had chosen to intervene, the doors burst open with a crash. The head nurse stood there, her face twisted with panic, breath ragged.
Dr. Whitmoreemergency! Unconscious woman, multiple contusions, suspected internal bleeding! Her voice trembled with a fear rarely heard within these walls.
Whitmore didnt hesitate. Finish here, he ordered his assistant, stripping off his gloves. Emily, with me!
The emergency room was chaos incarnate. The air thrummed with shouts, footsteps, the clatter of metal, the bite of antiseptic. On a gurney lay a woman no older than thirty, limp as a broken doll. Her face was deathly pale, her skin mottled with bruises, as though someone had methodically, coldly painted her body with pain. Whitmore approached her like a battlefield. His eyes, trained to see beneath the surface, began their silent analysis. He examined her, issuing orders with icy precision:
Prep for laparotomy! Blood type now, IV line, call the resuscitation teammove!
Who brought her in? he asked the duty nurse, never taking his eyes off the patient.
Her husband, she replied. Says she fell down the stairs.
Whitmore scoffed under his breath. His gaze darkened with suspicion. Stairs didnt leave marks like these. His eyes traced her body like a scanner, hunting for evidence. Old hematomas, barely healed bruises, telltale rib fracturesnone of this was accidental. But what seized his attention were the strange, almost symmetrical burns on her wrists, as though someone had pressed them to something hotdeliberately, systematically. Then he saw something else: faint, deliberate lines across her abdomen, scars from a blade. Not random cuts. These were the marks of torture.
Thirty minutes later, she was on the operating table. Whitmore worked like a machine, yet with a soul. He stemmed the bleeding, mended tissue, wrestled death itself. Then, suddenly, his hand stilled. He saw something that shouldnt be there: more marksnot just scars, but words, carved or burned into her skin. As though someone had tried to erase her identity, branding her instead.
Emily, he said quietly, eyes fixed on his task, once were done, find the husband. Keep him in the waiting room. Dont let him leave. And call the police. Quietly.
You think? Emily began.
Thinking is for the detectives, he cut in. Our job is to save lives. But these injuries theyre not from a fall. And theyre not the first. This isnt an accident. Its violence. Prolonged, systematic, cold.
The operation lasted another hour. Every second counted. But Whitmore refused to surrender. At last, her pulse steadied. Her life was saved. But her soul? That would take longer.
Stepping out, exhaustion crashed over him like a wave. But waiting in the corridor was a young constablesergeants stripes on his sleeve, notebook in hand, eyes sharp.
Inspector Langleys on his way, he said. What can you tell me?
Whitmore listed it all: internal bleeding, splenic rupture, injuries of varying ages, burns, cuts, old fractures. This wasnt a fall, he finished. This was torment. Someones been destroying her. For years. And its likely the man who swore to protect her.
Minutes later, Inspector Langley arrivedtrim, with piercing eyes that seemed to see past lies. He nodded to Whitmore. You know the victim?
First time Ive seen her, the surgeon replied. But if not for us, she wouldnt have seen morning. Her bodys a map of suffering. Every scars a testament to someones cruelty.
Langley listened in silence, then headed to the waiting room. Whitmore followednot out of curiosity, but the sense that he was now part of this story.
In the waiting room, a man pacedneatly dressed, fair-haired, grey jumper. His face wore concern, but his eyes were cold, rehearsed.
Hows my wife? Is Sophie alright? he demanded.
Sophie Margaret Harris? Langley clarified. Youre her husband, James William Harris?
Yes! Tell me whats wrong!
In critical care. Condition stable but grave, Whitmore said flatly. Describe how she fell.
Tripped on the stairs, James answered too quickly. I was in the kitchenheard a crash. Found her unconscious.
Brought her straight here? Langley pressed.
Of course! You think Id leave her?
Whitmore studied him. The picture of a devoted husband. But something in his gaze didnt match the worry. This was the look of a man accustomed to control. To punishment.
Mr. Harris, Langley said firmly, your wife has old injuries. Burns, cuts, fractures. Explain that.
James froze. Then he bristled. Sophies clumsy! Always burning herself cooking!
Kitchens burn *both* wrists symmetrically? Whitmore cut in. And the cuts on her abdomenthose from chopping vegetables too?
James paled but rallied. Are you accusing me? My wifes in hospital, and youre harassing me!
No accusations, Langley said calmly. But we will investigate.
Then Emily appeared. Dr. Whitmore, the patients awake. Asking for her husband.
James lurched forward. I need to see her!
Not possible, Whitmore said. Family only. Inspector, you might want to speak with her. The truths in her words.
Langley entered the critical care unit. Sophie lay like a wrung-out clothpale, exhausted, tethered to tubes. She managed a weak smile. James is he here?
In the waiting room, Whitmore said. How are you feeling?
Hurts she whispered. Did I fall?
Langley introduced himself. Sophie, do you remember how you were injured?
She hesitated. I tripped on the stairs. James always says I should be more careful
The burns on your wriststhose from cooking?
Fear flashed in her eyes. Im careless. Burn myself a lot.
Sophie, Whitmore said gently, weve seen your injuries. These arent accidents. Someone did this to you. We can help. But you have to tell the truth.
She looked away. Tears spilled. If I do itll be worse.
Has he threatened you? Langley asked softly.
Silence. More tears.
Well protect you, the inspector said. But we need a statement. Or when you leave, itll start again.
Hes not always like this she whispered. Sometimes hes kind Then something snaps in him
How long?
Almost a year After I lost my job. He said now I belonged to him completely. Had to be perfect.
The door flew open. James charged in. Sophie! Ive been so worried!
Langley blocked him. Step outside. Were speaking with the patient.
By what right?! Im her husband!
By law, Langley said coldly. And Ive reason to believe her injuries resulted from a crime.
James went white. Then he erupted. What lies have you told?! Youll regret this!
Sophie looked at him. Not with love. With terror. I cant anymore, James Im scared of you Every nightwhos coming home? My husband or the monster? You said no one would believe me
James lunged. Langley twisted his arm, clicking cuffs shut
