The boiler room was a beast of iron and steam, buried deep in the bowels of the hospital. It groaned and hissed like a dying dragon.
"Move it, kid! You think I'm paying you to stare at the pipes?"
The voice of the foreman, a man named Henderson, boomed over the mechanical din. Henderson was a mountain of a man, though most of that mass was concentrated in a stomach that hung over his belt like a sack of wet cement.
I didn't answer. I was too busy looking at the labyrinth of rusted metal in front of me. To anyone else, it was a mess of valves and gauges. But to me? It was a map.
As I focused on the screaming pressure valve, the world shifted. The gray metal became transparent wireframes in my mind. Glowing lines traced the flow of the steam.
Error: Pressure Release Valve B. Calcium buildup at 80%. Solution: Percussive maintenance at 45-degree angle.
I picked up a heavy wrench. I didn't need to guess. I swung it, striking the valve hard on its left flank.
CLANG.
Hissing steam vanished instantly. The needle on the pressure gauge dropped from the red zone to a steady, safe green. The beast went silent.
"Fixed," I muttered, wiping grease from my forehead.
Henderson waddled over, squinting at the gauge. He looked disappointed that nothing had exploded. "About time. Don't think you're special just because you got lucky with a hammer. Now go scrub the intake vents."
I spent the next eight hours in hell.
My body was still screaming from the coma. My muscles, atrophied from who knows how long in that hospital bed, trembled with every movement. I was running on fumes.
But the worst part was the other pain.
The "condition" Doctor Evans had given me hadn't gone away. The friction of the heavy work pants against my sensitive area was torture. Every step was a reminder of the fire in my blood.
By the time the sun went down, I was exhausted, filthy, and trembling.
"Day's over," Henderson grunted. He was sitting in his office, feet up on the desk, eating a sandwich.
"Leave the suit in the locker," he barked. "I ain't having you steal company property."
I changed back into my own clothes—the dirty t-shirt and torn jeans the hospital had discharged me in.
Henderson tossed a small, brown envelope at me. It landed in the dirt. I picked it up and looked inside. There were two crumpled twenty-dollar bills.
"Forty?" I looked up, frowning. "You said eighty for the day."
Henderson took a slow bite of his sandwich. "Finder's fee. Union dues. Equipment rental. Call it what you want, kid. It's a cruel world. You got a problem with it?"
I stared at him. I clenched my fists.
I wanted to leap across the desk. I knew exactly where to hit him to make him choke on that sandwich. My "blueprint vision" highlighted his windpipe like a glowing target.
But I froze.
Who am I?
I had no name. No ID. No home. If I hit him, he calls the cops. I go to jail. I have no money for bail.
I swallowed my pride. It tasted like bile.
"No problem," I said quietly.
I shoved the bills into my pocket, grabbed a dirty baseball cap from the lost-and-found hook near the door to hide my face, and walked out into the cold night air.
The city at night was unforgiving. The wind cut through my thin t-shirt like a knife. I walked for blocks, looking for a shelter, a motel, anything.
My teeth started to chatter. I'm going to freeze to death out here.
But it wasn't the cold that was killing me. It was the jeans.
The denim was rough, and with every step I took, the fabric rubbed against my erection. It was raw, chafing torture. I needed to get these pants off. I needed to lie down.
As I shivered, a memory of warmth flooded my mind. The sterile, white warmth of Room 304.
I stopped. I looked back at the hospital looming in the distance.
My bed is empty. They discharged me, but they haven't assigned it to anyone else yet.
It was a crazy idea. It was trespassing. But the alternative was hypothermia.
I pulled the dirty cap low over my eyes. I walked back to the hospital, but not to the service entrance. I went straight to the front doors.
Act like you belong.
As I stepped into the lobby, the schematic vision flickered to life.
It wasn't just machines. I could see the layout of the security system. I noticed the red blinking lights of the cameras.
Camera A: Rotating West to East. 10-second interval. Camera B: Static. Blind spot directly underneath.
I moved like a ghost. I waited for the lobby guard to look down at his phone, then slipped past the reception desk. I ducked under Camera B, moving in perfect sync with the rotation of Camera A.
I navigated the hallways, my heart pounding, dodging nurses and orderlies. I was invisible.
I reached the third floor. Room 304.
I pressed my ear to the door. Silence.
I slipped inside and closed the door softly behind me.
The room was dark. The curtain was drawn around the bed near the window. My bed—the one near the door—was stripped of its sheets, but the mattress was there.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
I checked the other curtain. The Soap Opera Lady—Mrs. Miller—was fast asleep. I could hear her soft, rhythmic snoring.
I was safe.
I didn't waste a second. My hands flew to my belt buckle. I unzipped the jeans and shoved them down, kicking them off with a groan of pure relief.
Free from the denim prison, the pain subsided to a dull throb. I was left in my underwear, my condition clearly visible, but at least I wasn't being sanded down by fabric.
I collapsed onto the bare mattress, pulled the curtain around me, and closed my eyes.
Just one night. I'll be gone before shift change at 6:00 AM.
I drifted off instantly, my exhausted body shutting down.
Haaa... ahhh...
The sound woke me up.
It was pitch black. I blinked, disoriented.
Nnnngh... yes...
Heavy breathing. The rustling of sheets. The rhythmic squeak of a mattress.
It was happening again.
Mrs. Miller.
She must have woken up in the middle of the night. She thought she was alone. The room was empty when she went to sleep, and she hadn't heard me come in.
So, she was letting loose.
Oh god...
Her moans were louder tonight. More desperate. Wet sounds filled the small room.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out. But I couldn't block out the reaction of my own body.
My condition, which had settled down while I slept, flared up instantly. The blood rushed south with the force of a tidal wave. The pain returned, immediate and blinding. It felt like I was being stretched apart.
I gritted my teeth. Stop it. Go to sleep.
Haaa! Oh, Brad! she moaned, calling out a name that definitely wasn't her husband's.
It went on for ten minutes. Then twenty.
I was sweating. The pain in my groin was throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I was exhausted from the boiler room, I was cheated out of my money, and now I was being tortured by a woman getting off five feet away from me.
Something in me snapped.
I couldn't take it anymore.
I sat up. The bedsprings creaked loudly.
The moaning stopped instantly.
Silence filled the room. A terrified, heavy silence.
I didn't wait. I stood up, reached for the wall, and flipped the light switch.
CLICK.
Fluorescent light flooded the room.
Mrs. Miller yelped, scrambling to pull the sheet up to her chin. Her face was flushed red, her hair a mess, and her hand was still clearly under the covers between her legs.
She saw me.
Her eyes went wide. She saw a man standing in her room, a man who wasn't supposed to be there.
Panic washed over her face. She opened her mouth. She was going to scream. She was going to call security.
If she screams, I'm dead.
My body moved on instinct.
I crossed the room in two strides. Before she could let out a sound, I grabbed her.
My left hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the scream into a muffled whimper. With my right hand, I grabbed her wrist—the one she had raised to push me away—and twisted it behind her back.
It wasn't a violent twist, but it was firm. A lock. She couldn't move.
I pinned her against the raised pillows of her bed. Our faces were inches apart. I could smell her fear, and beneath that, the scent of her arousal.
"Shhh," I hissed.
She stared up at me, eyes bulging with terror. She struggled, bucking her hips, but I held her firm.
"Listen to me," I whispered, my voice rough with exhaustion and anger. "I am not going to hurt you. But you are not going to scream."
She whimpered against my hand.
"I have nowhere to go," I said, leaning closer to her ear. "I just need to sleep. I will be gone before the sun comes up. And you..."
I paused. I looked down at her. Her nightgown had slipped off one shoulder. Her chest was heaving.
"...and you are going to let me stay. Because if you call the nurse, I'm going to tell them exactly what you were doing before I turned the lights on."
Her struggling stopped.
The threat landed. She realized the position she was in.
I slowly loosened my grip on her arm, though I kept my hand ready. I pulled my hand away from her mouth, inch by inch.
"Do we have a deal?" I asked softly.
Mrs. Miller didn't answer immediately. She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
She looked at my face. Then, her eyes drifted down.
I was standing by the side of her bed. I had taken my jeans off hours ago. I was in nothing but my t-shirt and boxers.
And my condition was impossible to hide.
The fabric of my underwear was strained to the limit. The bulge was massive, angry, and undeniable. It was right at her eye level.
Mrs. Miller's breath hitched.
The fear in her eyes began to change. It melted away, replaced by something else. Something darker.
She looked at the bulge, then back up at my eyes. She licked her dry lips.
She was a lonely woman. Her husband ignored her. She had been fantasizing about soap opera stars just minutes ago. And now, a dangerous, desperate, half-naked young man was overpowering her in her bed.
It wasn't a threat anymore. It was a fantasy come to life.
She didn't scream. She didn't push me away.
"You can stay," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"Good," I said, stepping back to return to my bed.
"Wait," she said.
I stopped.
She reached out a shaking hand. She didn't grab the alarm button. She grabbed the waistband of my boxers.
Her eyes were locked on my problem.
"You look... in pain," she murmured, a flush creeping up her neck that had nothing to do with embarrassment. "And I'm... still frustrated."
She looked up at me, her eyes pleading and hungry.
"Help me," she said, her voice dropping an octave. "And maybe I can help you."