A D R I A N

The clinic smells of antiseptic and sea salt. Outside, dawn bleeds slowly over Seraphine, soft light spilling through the shutters and washing the white walls in silver. Inside, the only sounds are the faint hiss of oxygen and the tick of an IV pump counting down the night.

I should’ve gone home hours ago.
Instead, I’m sitting in the corner of the treatment bay with my jacket folded over a chair, sleeves rolled, watching Elara move. She’s been on her feet all night, rounds, charts, a late-night stitch on a careless guest who thought coral wouldn’t cut. Her ponytail is half-fallen, and a curl keeps sliding forward against her cheek. She doesn’t notice. She’s too focused on the patient’s pulse, her voice low and steady: “Breathe with me. Good. Again.”

Power looks different here. It isn’t money or orders or fear. It’s the way she speaks and people obey without question, as if the body itself trusts her.
When she leans closer to check the bandage, the sunrise hits the fine hairs along her throat. My fingers twitch before I can stop them. I tell myself I’m only observing efficiency, making sure the clinic meets protocol, but that’s another lie I can’t afford to name.

She tapes the last line, smooth and precise. “You’ll be fine,” she tells the man. “Stay off that reef for a week.” He thanks her in a sleepy mumble and drifts under the sedative’s calm.
She exhales, shoulders loosening. When she turns, she catches me staring.

“Are you planning to supervise me till breakfast, or did you forget how doors work?”

I stand, stretching the stiffness from my neck. “Someone has to make sure you actually rest.”

“I’ll rest when my patients do.” Her tone is tired, not sharp. “You’re still here, too.”

“I wanted to see how the night team handled the overflow.”

“Overflow handled,” she says. “Go home, Valcrosse.”

Her use of my name shouldn’t sound like a touch, but it does. I move closer anyway. “You always talk this way to your boss?”

“In this room?” She gestures around. “You’re not my boss. You’re just another stubborn body who won’t sit down.”

“I like watching you work.” The words slip out before I can leash them.

She blinks, then smirks faintly. “Is that supposed to be a compliment or a confession?”

“Maybe both.”

She crosses to the supply cabinet, opening drawers. “If you’re staying, make yourself useful.” She nods toward the tray beside her. “Gauze packs, alcohol swabs, second shelf.”

I obey, ridiculous, but I do it. I stack the boxes by lot number, the way she showed a nurse earlier. She glances over, one brow lifted. “You follow instructions well.”

“Only yours.”

Her breath catches almost imperceptibly. She tears open a packet, wraps a clean dressing, pretending not to hear. The silence stretches. My pulse doesn’t care about pretending.

“Sit,” she says finally. “You look worse than the patients.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.” She sinks onto the cot beside the IV stand, rubbing her wrist. “You haven’t closed your eyes all night.”

I sat beside her. The space between our knees hums with heat. Outside, the horizon glows pale gold. The world feels suspended, fragile and new.

“Why did you really stay?” she asks quietly.

Because the thought of you alone in this room made my chest hurt. Because I haven’t felt peace in months, and somehow it’s here.
I say, “I didn’t want to leave you with paperwork.”

She huffs a laugh. “Terrifying. The mighty heir felled by forms.”

Her smile is small, real, the kind that doesn’t belong to any camera. She looks away before I can memorize it. “Sometimes it feels wrong to leave before sunrise,” she murmurs. “Like if I walk out early, something will happen because I wasn’t here.”

“Does it ever stop feeling like that?”

Her eyes meet mine, gray-green and raw. “No. But maybe it hurts less when someone stays.”

The words hit harder than I expected. I want to touch her hand. I don’t.

Outside, a gull cries, sharp against the hush. Then the crunch of tires on gravel, the hiss of brakes, a truck door slamming shut. Elara straightens, alert again.

“The safety shipment,” she says, relief lighting her face. “Finally.”

I follow her down the short ramp outside the clinic. Dawn has turned the sea to glass, the breeze damp against my shirt. A white cargo truck idles beside the dock, its engine coughing softly. Two resort staff in blue polos unload crates stamped with the Valcrosse crest and the word MEDICAL in bold navy letters.

She waves to them, excitement bright in her face. “These are the safety orders, AEDs, oxygen tanks, everything we’ve been begging for.”

One of the workers wedges a crowbar under the first lid. Nails groan loose.
“Careful,” Elara says. “The defibrillators should be boxed in foam..”

The lid lifts.

Silence.

Inside: packing paper, molded trays, and nothing else.

The worker frowns. “Uh… the manifest said forty-eight units..”

“Check another one,” I ordered.

He hurries to the next crate, splits it open. Empty. The third, same. Elara’s smile collapses, confusion bleeding into disbelief.

“This can’t be right,” she murmurs, snatching the manifest from the clipboard. “We tracked the shipment from the Central Port. It cleared customs yesterday.”

I take the paper from her, scanning the printed list. Serial numbers, lot codes, signatures, all perfect. The illusion of order. I look back at the hollow boxes and feel the quiet twist low in my gut. “Someone signed for this,” I say. “With our crest on every side.”

She stares into the emptiness. “These were supposed to make the island safe before the festival. If they’re gone..”

“Then someone wanted them gone.”

The words hang between us like fog.

The driver wipes sweat from his brow. “Sir, I just picked up sealed cargo from the dock. Security checked it in. I’ve got video on the dashcam if you want..”

“Send it to me,” I say sharply. He nods, fumbling for his phone.

Elara presses a hand to her mouth, eyes darting across the crates stacked like tombs. “We could’ve used this gear last week. If this isn’t a mistake…”

“It’s not,” I finished for her. The manifest flaps in the breeze like a warning. My mother’s voice echoes in memory: If you can’t make the right choice, make the brave one.

Ethan appears at the edge of the dock, drawn by the noise. He takes one look at the open crates and stills. “What happened?”

“Shipment’s empty,” I answer.

His gaze sharpens. “All of it?”

“Every box.”

He glances at Elara, then back at me. “That’s not the supply chain. That’s interference.”

I nod once. “Find out who handled these after customs. Every signature, every minute of transport. No one moves until we know.”

Ethan’s already on his radio, barking orders.

Elara kneels beside the nearest crate, running her hand over the untouched dust inside. When she looks up, her eyes are bright but hard. “This island keeps proving it wants to kill people,” she whispers.

“Then we don’t let it,” I say.

A gull screams overhead, the sound sharp as glass. The truck engine idles, useless, while sunlight pours over the empty boxes like a spotlight on failure.

Somewhere beneath the noise, a darker certainty settles in my chest: this wasn’t an accident. Someone’s playing a longer game, and the next move is coming for her.

“Ethan,” I say, eyes still on Elara. “Lock down the docks. No one leaves this island until we find what’s missing.”