“General. Third floor, ICU.”
Vic walked out without another word. He took the stairs two at a time.
On the sidewalk, he lit another cigarette, his hands steady now. He knew one thing: if Ellie didn’t make it, this town was going to feel his shadow.
And even if she did, he was going to find every single person who broke her. Because men like Vic Miller lived by a simple code: you protect your own, no matter the cost.
Vic headed toward the hospital. The sky was darkening, and the smell of rain grew stronger. The city went about its business, oblivious to the fact that a man had just arrived for whom revenge wasn’t an emotion.
It was a job. General Hospital was a sprawling concrete fortress on the edge of the city, smelling of bleach and fading hope.
Vic took the service stairs to the third floor. He bypassed the nurse’s station and found the ICU ward.
Through the glass door, he saw the white walls, the blinking monitors, and the rows of beds. Ellie was by the window. Tubes in her nose, an IV in her arm, her face pale against the pillow.
Vic stood frozen, watching through the glass. The last time he’d seen her was four years ago, through a plexiglass partition at the prison. She’d been smiling then, telling him about her classes.
She’d brought him a care package—coffee, wool socks, a book. She’d lied to him.
She’d been protecting him.
“Are you family?” a voice asked behind him.
Vic turned around.
A doctor. Young, maybe thirty, in a wrinkled white coat with tired eyes.
“I’m her father,” Vic said shortly.
The doctor nodded and looked at a chart.
“Elena Miller. Twenty-three.”
She’d been brought in on March 29th. Severe drug overdose. They’d pumped her stomach and put her on a ventilator. Grade II coma. The prognosis was grim.
The brain had been deprived of oxygen. Even if she woke up, there would be complications.
“What kind?” Vic’s voice was low, dangerous.
“Memory loss, motor issues, severe depression, PTSD.”
The doctor paused.
“Do you have any idea why she did it?”
Vic didn’t answer.
He walked into the room and stood by the bed. Ellie’s breathing was mechanical, forced by the machine. Vic sat down and took her cold hand. There were scars on her wrist.
Old ones, partially healed. She’d tried this before. She’d been looking for a way out for a long time.
He squeezed her fingers. His throat felt tight. Vic hadn’t cried since he was a boy.
Prison burns the tears out of you. But what he felt now was worse. It was a void.
A black hole swallowing everything—hope, faith, the future. A memory flashed back.
1984. Vic was between his second and third stints. He was working as a foreman at a warehouse, or so he told people.
In reality, he was running security for local shipments. Ellie was nine. His mother had brought her to visit him.
“Daddy!” the girl had squealed, throwing her arms around his neck.
Vic had lifted her up. She was light as a feather.
She smelled like apple shampoo and sunshine. Her eyes were wide and trusting. She didn’t know what he did.
To her, he was just the dad who came home with presents.
“You being a good girl?” he’d asked.
“The best,” she’d nodded.
“Study hard. Stay away from the wrong crowd. And remember, if anyone ever bothers you, you tell me.”
Always. She’d nodded solemnly. He’d bought her an ice cream and spent the day at the park. It was one of the few bright spots in his life. Then came another seven-year stretch.
When he got out, Ellie was a teenager—guarded, distant. He’d tried to bridge the gap, but it was too late. Relationships are built in the day-to-day, and he’d only given her fragments.
Her last letter had come in the winter of ’97. “Dad, it’s almost Christmas. I made a wish that you’d never go back. I just want us to be a normal family. Love, Ellie.”
He’d smiled bitterly at that. A normal family. For a man like him, that was a fairy tale.
The sound of the door opening snapped him back. A nurse walked in. She was middle-aged and looked kind.
“Will you be staying long?”
