In the mornings, Quinton arrived before most of the staff, his polished boots clicking against the marble floors. His presence alone drew heads up. Tall, impeccably tailored in dark grey, broad shoulders unyielding, raw power flickering faintly in his eyes—he moved with the quiet authority of someone who didn’t need to raise his voice for people to listen.
Hudson, already at his post in the main ward, saw him before anyone else did. He tried to focus on charts, on patient updates, on anything professional—but the moment Quinton passed, the air seemed to shift. His pulse jumped. Heat pooled low in his stomach. He cursed under his breath and tried to redirect his attention.
By mid-morning, Quinton had done the subtle work that would become legendary in the staff’s whispered conversations:
