Page 6 of Break For Me
It’s minimalist. A grey couch. A glass table with nothing on it. A single bottle of Beluga Noble on the counter. There are no rugs, no curtains, nothing that holds onto the scent of the past.
I lock the door. Deadbolt. Chain. Secondary bolt I installed myself.
The secondary bolt is a lie. It’s there to give me the illusion of control. It wouldn't stop a man with a heavy boot and a reason to enter.
I pour the vodka. Neat. Two fingers in a heavy-bottomed glass. I hold the glass and let the cold seep into my palm. I need the temperature to ground me, to pull me out of the sterile white room and back into my own skin.
I walk to the desk in the corner. I look at the top drawer. The letter from the Maryland Medical Board is inside. I don't need to read it. I know every word.Pattern of conduct falling below the accepted standard of care... license revoked.
Beneath it is the photo of Elena. Seventeen, at her first recital at the conservatory prep program. She’s laughing, her head tilted back, her dark hair pinned up in an elegant bun. She has our mother’s eyes—wide, green, and full of light.
She thinks I work at a high-end private practice. She thinks the money that pays her tuition comes from rich socialites who want discreet cosmetic procedures. She calls me every Sunday and tells me about her professors and the boy in her theory class who keeps asking her for coffee.
I lie to her. I tell her I’m proud. I tell her I’m busy. Then I hang up and drink until the room stops spinning.
I put the photo back and close the drawer. I drink the vodka in one long swallow. It burns a clean line down my throat and settles in my stomach like a small, bright fire.
Discipline is the only thing left of my life. I will not let it erode. I will not become Yuri, sweating through my cap and smelling of cheap gin.
I set the glass in the sink. I loosen my tie, the silk sliding through the knot. I reach for the top button of my shirt, my fingers grazing my throat.
A scrape. Metal on metal.
It’s coming from the door. Not the hallway. The door itself.
The deadbolt turns. The mechanism is smooth—someone has a key. Or a pick used with professional skill.
The chain catches. It holds for a heartbeat. Then the mounting screws rip out of the wood with a sharp, percussive snap.
The secondary bolt holds for two seconds. I can hear the wood splintering, the frame groaning under a massive pressure. Then it gives way.
I don’t run. I don’t have anywhere to go. My apartment is a box with one exit. I stand in my kitchen with my hands at my sides and watch my life change.
The man who steps through the door is a monolith.
He blocks the light from the hall, his silhouette massive and jagged. His shoulders strain against a dark henley. His head is shaved, and the skin is covered in a dozen tiny nicks. His face is a record of violence—a split cheekbone held by a strip of tape, a blackening jaw, a nose that’s been crushed and reset more than once.
His hands are swollen. The knuckles are crusted with dark blood. They look like they were made for breaking things.
He looks at me. His eyes are dark and flat, devoid of any recognizable human emotion. He is calculating how much force I’m worth. He is measuring me for a coffin.
I’ve seen men like this on my table. I have sewn up their knife wounds and pulled bullets from their lungs. I know the breed. Enforcer. Soldier. A tool designed for the delivery of pain.
But I’ve never had one in my kitchen.
He steps inside. The third floorboard from the left groans under his weight, a sound I’ve heard a thousand times.
He doesn't speak. He just fills the room with the overwhelming reality of his presence. He smells of old coffee, gun oil, and the cold, wet metallic scent of the rain outside.
I feel a strange, detached clarity. The same clarity I feel when a patient is flatlining and the room goes quiet.
My life is over.
Whatever happens next is just the autopsy.
"Dr. Adrian Sterling?" The man's voice is a low rumble, the sound of tectonic plates shifting.
"Yes," I say. My voice is steady. My hands do not move.
