The hospital grounds had turned into chaos.
Camera flashes burst like miniature explosions, lighting up the night in harsh white streaks. Reporters crowded behind barricades, voices overlapping as microphones were shoved forward, each one desperate to catch a word, a glance—anything.
Police cruisers lined the entrance to St. Patrick's Hospital, their lights bathing the marble steps in alternating red and blue. Officers moved with rigid efficiency, forming corridors through the crowd as two disgraced men were escorted out in handcuffs.
Dexter Clint no longer looked like a saint.
His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped, the white coat that once symbolized trust replaced by cold steel restraints. Beside him, the deputy commissioner walked stiffly, jaw clenched, eyes darting like a trapped animal.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
"This way!"
"Doctor Clint, did you know about the trafficking?"
"Deputy Commissioner, how long has this been going on?!"
Neither man answered.
