I woke up to the smell of cold air and silence. The side of the bed where Denny had been was empty, the sheets wrinkled but cool. He was gone.
I sat up, rubbing my face. No note. No text. Just his name, Denny, lingering in my mind. And those eyes. The way they held mine last night, intense and heavy, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t. I’d seen flashes—blood, fear, something deeper, darker—but I pushed it away.
It’s none of your business, Calla. Let it go.
I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. The hot water stung my skin, but I welcomed it. I couldn’t let my mind drift to the visions or the strange pull I felt toward Denny. No premonitions, no entanglements, no looking back.
Today was the first day of my new life. East Brunswick Medical Hospital. The place where I’d prove I was more than the freak “wonder child” people whispered about years ago.
The hospital was everything I’d imagined—sterile, bustling, and intimidating. My heart raced as I adjusted my white coat and glanced at the polished name tag pinned to my chest: Calla Deneuve, M.D., Intern.
I barely had time to take it all in before a sharp voice cut through my thoughts.
“Dr. Deneuve?”
I turned to see a tall man with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. His white coat hung neatly over his frame, and his expression was all business.
“Yeah?” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
“I’m Dr. Sinclair, your senior resident,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly as if sizing me up. “We’re starting rounds now. Try to keep up.”
“Of course,” I muttered, falling in step behind him.
The pace was relentless. Dr. Sinclair moved through patients like a machine, firing off questions to the team and expecting instant answers.
“What are the three most common causes of fever in ICU patients?” he asked as we approached the next room.
“Uh—” I stumbled.
“Dr. Deneuve?” He turned, his eyebrows raised.
“Pneumonia, catheter-related infections, and sepsis,” I said quickly, my cheeks flushing.
His gaze lingered on me for a second longer than I liked. “Correct. Don’t hesitate next time.”
I bit my tongue and followed him into the room.
The patient was an elderly man, pale and frail, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His chart listed symptoms: fever, weakness, confusion. No diagnosis.
Dr. Sinclair reviewed the chart aloud. “Blood cultures negative, imaging inconclusive… still no clear cause of the infection. Thoughts?” He glanced at the team.
A few interns offered suggestions, but nothing stuck. I stayed silent, my eyes drifting to the man’s face. His skin was waxy, his breathing shallow. Then, without thinking, I looked into his eyes.
And it hit me.
A vision. Sharp and clear, like a lightning bolt to my brain. His kidneys—tiny crystals forming, tearing him apart from the inside. Uric acid levels spiking. It was obvious. Gout-induced sepsis.
My heart pounded. I knew exactly what was wrong. A simple treatment—fluids, antibiotics, and lowering his uric acid—could save him.
But my throat tightened. What if I was wrong? What if my “gift” failed me again, like it had with my father?
“Dr. Deneuve, do you have anything to add?” Dr. Sinclair’s voice cut through my thoughts.
I froze. “No, sir. Nothing to add.”
He gave me a sharp look but moved on. I let out a shaky breath, my stomach churning.
That night, guilt gnawed at me. I couldn’t stop replaying the man’s face, his labored breathing, the way his life was slipping away while I stayed silent.
I wandered back to the ICU, hoping to convince myself that everything was fine. But it wasn’t.
The nurse on duty looked grim as she updated his chart. “He’s crashing. No one can figure out what’s going on.”
My chest tightened. I clenched my fists, anger bubbling beneath my skin. You could have saved him, Calla.
I turned to leave, but something stopped me. A figure sitting in the ER waiting area.
It was Denny.