"And I'll fix yours."
Dr. Sterling's hand was firm, her thumb brushing against the agonizing pressure point of my condition. I let out a low, shaky breath. My eyes rolled back. This was it. After forty-eight hours of torture, the Head of Urology was going to—
Click.
The door handle turned.
"Lena? Are you in there?"
Dr. Sterling didn't flinch. Her hand vanished from my crotch with the speed of a magician. By the time the door swung open, she was leaning against the counter, blowing on her coffee, looking bored.
I wasn't as smooth. I spun around, slamming my hips into the cabinet to hide the massive tent in my jeans. I grabbed a wrench and started aggressively tightening a bolt that was already tight.
A man walked in. He was wearing a lab coat, balding, with a face that screamed 'middle management.'
"Arthur," Dr. Sterling said, her voice flat. "I'm on break."
"I know, I know," Dr. Arthur sighed, walking in and ignoring me completely. "But the budget committee is breathing down my neck about the new dialysis machines. They want to cut the order by 15%. Can you believe the audacity?"
He started talking. And talking. And talking.
He droned on about spreadsheets, vendor contracts, and hospital politics.
I was on my knees under the sink, sweating bullets. My erection was smashed against the plywood cabinet, throbbing in time with my racing heart.
Are you kidding me? I screamed internally. God, if you exist, you have a sick sense of humor. Just five minutes! That's all I needed!
I tried to stall. I checked the U-bend three times. I wiped the pipes until they shone. But Arthur just kept talking about "fiscal year projections."
The pain in my groin was becoming a dull, sickening ache.
"All done," I announced, defeated.
"Good job," Dr. Sterling said. She glanced at me. There was a flicker of apology in her eyes, but mostly she just looked annoyed that her fun had been canceled. "Send the bill to maintenance."
I packed my tools and walked out, limping slightly. As I left the room, I heard Arthur say, "Who was that?"
"Just a handyman," Sterling replied.
I spent the rest of the day in a haze of frustration.
I finished my shift, collected another envelope of cash from Henderson (who shorted me five dollars this time), and walked out into the city.
I counted my money. Sixty-five dollars.
It wasn't enough for a motel. Not a decent one, anyway. And even if I found a flophouse, they'd ask for ID.
Who am I?
The question haunted me. I sat on a park bench, eating a cold sandwich. I had skills. I had this strange vision that let me fix anything. But without a name, I was a ghost.
As night fell, the cold returned. And with the cold came the memory of Room 304.
One more night, I told myself. Just until I can save enough for a fake ID.
I pulled the cap down low and snuck back into the hospital. I knew the camera blind spots by heart now. It was like a dance.
I reached Room 304 and slipped inside.
My heart sank.
My bed—the one near the door—was occupied. A mound of blankets rose and fell with wheezing breaths. An old man.
I looked at the window. Mrs. Miller was asleep in her bed.
I couldn't leave. It was freezing outside.
I spotted a small, folded blanket on the visitor's chair. I grabbed it, moved to the far corner of the room near Mrs. Miller's bed, and curled up on the linoleum floor. The blanket was too small; it barely covered my legs.
I squeezed my eyes shut, praying for sleep.
"AAAAH! SECURITY!"
The scream shattered the silence.
I jolted awake, blinded by a flashlight beam. A night nurse stood in the doorway, pointing at me like I was a monster.
"There's a homeless man in here!" she shrieked.
Within seconds, heavy footsteps thundered down the hall. Two burly security guards burst in.
"Get up!" one of them roared, grabbing me by the collar of my t-shirt. He yanked me to my feet, choking me.
"Wait!"
The voice cut through the chaos.
Mrs. Miller was sitting up in bed, looking disheveled but fierce.
"Let him go!" she commanded.
The guard paused, looking confused. "Ma'am, this man is sleeping on the floor. He's a vagrant."
"He is not a vagrant," Mrs. Miller lied, her voice steady. "He is my night caretaker."
The room went silent. The nurse lowered her flashlight. "Your... caretaker?"
"Yes," Mrs. Miller said, lifting her chin. "My husband can't be here at night. I get... anxious. I hired him to watch over me. He must have fallen asleep on the floor because the chair is uncomfortable."
The guard looked at me, then at Mrs. Miller. He released my collar.
"I... see," the nurse said, exchanging a look with the guard. A look that said: Does her husband know about this?
"Sorry for the disturbance, Ma'am," the guard muttered. They backed out of the room, but I could hear them whispering as they walked down the hall.
"Caretaker? Yeah, right. More like a gigolo." "Her husband never visits. Sad."
The door clicked shut.
The silence in the room was thick.
"Let's go," Mrs. Miller whispered. "Before they come back to ask for your badge."
We snuck out of the room and found a quiet spot on the rooftop garden. The city lights twinkled below us.
Mrs. Miller leaned against the railing, wrapping her robe tighter around herself.
"Thank you," I said, looking at my shoes. "You saved my ass."
"Why didn't you have anywhere to go?" she asked softly.
I told her everything. The amnesia. The lack of ID. The fear that if the cops took me, I'd disappear into the system forever.
She listened, her expression softening.
"You're not sleeping on the floor again," she said firmly. "I'll talk to the administration tomorrow. I'll tell them I need a private 24-hour aid. It'll be official. You get a badge, and you get the spare cot."
"You'd do that for me?"
"You didn't rat me out last night," she smirked. "We're even."
She looked me up and down. Then, her eyes narrowed. She pointed at my jeans.
Even in the dim light of the roof, the bulge was visible. It was straining against the zipper, relentless and painful.
Mrs. Miller laughed, a harsh, dry sound. "Jesus, you really are a pervert, aren't you? We just almost got arrested, you're talking about being homeless, and you're still hard?"
I flinched. The accusation stung.
"It's not like that," I snapped. "It's medical."
I explained it. The accident. Doctor Evans. The experimental drugs. The fact that my own hand couldn't fix it. The constant, throbbing pain that felt like a migraine in my groin.
Mrs. Miller's smile faded. She stared at me, horror dawning on her face.
"Wait," she whispered. "So last night... when I stopped..."
"I was in agony," I admitted. "I still am. It hasn't gone down for two days."
She covered her mouth. "Oh my god. I used you. I treated you like a toy and then just... left you there in pain."
"It's fine," I gritted out. "I'm used to it."
"No, it's not fine," she said. She stepped closer, her eyes dark and serious. "I owe you. For the lie to the guards. And for... leaving you hanging."
She reached out and took my hand.
"Fix me," she whispered. "And I'll fix you."
I looked at her. "Not here. Cameras."
"Where?"
I smiled. "I know a place. Follow me."
The boiler room was empty at this hour. The night shift guy was asleep in the office; I could hear his snoring through the door.
I led Mrs. Miller behind the massive #4 Boiler. It was hot, loud, and dark. Steam hissed from the vents, creating a curtain of white mist.
As soon as we were in the shadows, she pounced.
There was no hesitation this time. No guilt. She pushed me back against a warm pipe. Her hands were frantic, tearing at my belt.
"Show me," she demanded.
I shoved my jeans down.
The relief of the cool air hitting my skin was instantly replaced by the heat of her mouth.
She didn't tease. She knew I was in pain, and she was on a mission. She took me deep, her throat working, her hands gripping my thighs to keep me steady.
"Fuuuck..." I threw my head back, my hands tangling in her hair.
But a blowjob wasn't enough. Not for the pressure I was carrying.
I pulled her up. She was breathless, her eyes wild. I spun her around and bent her over the railing of the catwalk. I lifted her hospital gown. She wasn't wearing underwear.
"Do it," she begged. "Hard."
I thrust into her.
It wasn't making love. It was survival.
The animalistic need took over. I pounded into her, the metal railing rattling with the force of our bodies. She screamed into the steam, the sound drowned out by the mechanical roar of the boilers.
"Yes! Yes! Use me!"
Every thrust chipped away at the wall of pain. The blueprint vision in my mind went haywire, flashing red and gold.
She wrapped her arms behind her, clawing at my back. I grabbed her hips, bruising her skin, driving deeper than I thought possible.
She climaxed first, her legs shaking so hard she almost fell.
But this time, I didn't stop.
"I'm coming!" I roared.
The release was explosive. It felt like my soul was being ripped out. A wave of white-hot pleasure shattered the pain, washing away the headache, the stress, the fear.
I collapsed onto her back, breathing heavily, my sweat mixing with the steam.
We stayed like that for a long minute, the only sound the dripping of water and our ragged breaths.
Ten feet away, in the dark recess behind a stack of crates.
A figure stood motionless in the shadows.
She was a woman in her late twenties, with bleached blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and chipped red nail polish. She wore a leather jacket that had seen better days and chewed aggressively on a piece of gum.
She held a phone up, the camera lens peering through a gap in the pipes.
Click.
The flash was off, but the night mode captured everything perfectly. The railing. The hospital gown. The face of the new handyman.
The woman lowered the phone and smirked, scrolling through the gallery to check the quality.
She was Henderson's sister-in-law. She had come down here to harass her fat brother-in-law for a loan to pay off her credit card debt, but she had found something much more valuable instead.
She looked at the photo on her screen.
"Jackpot," she whispered, her voice raspy with smoke.