Episode 1

Ramon Zachary

My life is as normal as it should be—maybe too normal. Work, eat, sleep, repeat. That’s the routine for most surgeons, and I’ve learned to live with it. Patients, procedures, charts—they make sense. They’re predictable. My world is clean, orderly, and untouched by chaos.

The biggest “drama” in my life is my overprotective brother, who insists on interrogating anyone who even thinks about asking me out. His intentions are good, but no one sticks around long enough to deal with the “crazy hardworking doctor” and his looming sibling.

It’s not that I hate my life. It’s fine. Decent. Safe. But tonight, all of that unraveled.

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The hospital parking lot was almost deserted, a sterile emptiness under buzzing fluorescent lights. The chill of the night air bit at my skin as I trudged toward my car, each step heavier than the last. My limbs ached, and my head throbbed—a parting gift from a fourteen-hour shift.

I’d been dreaming of this moment all day: getting home, collapsing into bed, pulling the covers over my head, and ignoring the world until the sun decided to drag me out again.

“Dr. Roman Zachary?”

The voice froze me mid-step.

It wasn’t loud, but there was something sharp about it—commanding, deliberate. My gut tightened. I turned slowly, frowning, to see a man standing in the shadows near the stairwell.

He was tall, dressed in a black suit so perfectly tailored it seemed to absorb the dim light. He stepped forward, the heels of his polished shoes echoing faintly on the concrete. Sunglasses. At night. Seriously? He looked like he’d stepped out of some B-grade gangster flick, but there was nothing funny about the cold, unreadable expression on his face.

“Can I help you?” I asked warily, my voice edging toward defensive.

The man stepped fully into the light. His face was the kind you’d forget in a crowd, but the way he held himself—still, deliberate, exuding an unnatural calm—made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“My boss needs you,” he said, his tone clipped and precise. “You’re coming with me. Bring your medical bag.”

I blinked. “Excuse me? Who’s your boss? And why does he ‘need’ me—” I glanced at my watch. “—at two in the morning? If it’s a medical emergency, the ER is literally ten steps away.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, his expression fixed in an eerie calm that sent a chill racing down my spine. “This isn’t a request,” he said.

I let out a nervous laugh, more out of disbelief than amusement. “Okay, this is a joke, right? Did my brother put you up to this? Or maybe one of the nurses—”

His silence killed my words mid-sentence. He wasn’t joking.

Dread unfurled in my chest, slow and suffocating. My brain scrambled for a logical explanation, some way to rationalize what was happening. “Look,” I said, taking a step back, my palms raised. “I don’t know who your boss is, but if he needs a doctor, tell him to come to the hospital. I’m off duty.”

I turned and started toward my car, each step quickening as my heart pounded in my chest.

“Dr. Roman.”

The voice stopped me again, but this time there was no patience in it—just cold, sharp steel.

Before I could react, a hand clamped down on my arm. Firm. Unyielding. My breath hitched as I turned, and that’s when I saw it.

The gun.

Low, discreet, just out of sight but close enough to make its point. The light from the parking lot glinted off the metal, and my stomach dropped.

“What... what are you doing?” My voice cracked, the words stumbling over themselves.

The man’s grip didn’t waver. “You’re coming with me. Willingly, or not.”

The air seemed to thicken around me, pressing against my chest. I was a surgeon, for God’s sake. My battles were fought in operating rooms, not... whatever this was. My mind raced, searching for an escape, but reality settled in like a cold slap.

This wasn’t a negotiation.

“Okay,” I said shakily, swallowing hard. “Fine. Just... put that thing away. I’ll come with you.”

He released my arm, his expression unchanged, and gestured toward a sleek black car parked a few feet away. The driver, just as stoic, sat waiting behind the wheel.

With a pounding heart, I forced my legs to move. Each step felt heavier than the last, like I was walking toward my own execution.

I slid into the back seat, the leather cool against my skin. The door shut with a quiet but solid thud, and the man climbed in beside me.

The driver pulled away, the car gliding through the empty streets with eerie precision.

The silence in the car was unbearable, pressing against my ears like a living thing. My mind raced, a tangled mess of questions and fear. Who was this man? Who was his boss? What did they want with me?

I stared out the window, the city lights blurring into streaks of color. The car smelled faintly of leather and cologne, but beneath that was something sharper—the acrid scent of my own fear.

I glanced at the man beside me. His body language was impossibly relaxed, as if this were just another day at the office.

“Can you at least tell me where we’re going?” I asked, my voice tight.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he said without turning to look at me.

His calmness only made my anxiety worse.

For a fleeting moment, I thought of my brother. Derek would lose his mind if he knew what was happening right now. He’d probably storm in here with a baseball bat—or worse.

But I couldn’t call him. I couldn’t call anyone.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms as I tried to steady my breathing. Whoever this boss was, I was going to get answers. And then, somehow, I was going to get the hell out of this.

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