4. Hunter

FOUR

Hunter

Hunter's Condo

8:12 am

The weights clink softly as I finish another set of deadlifts, the familiar burn in my muscles grounding me, pushing everything else out of my mind.

My home gym is quiet. The only sound is the rhythmic thud of my heart in my ears and the occasional rustle of fabric as I move. I can't find my Beats, so I'm going a cappella this morning.

The floor-to-ceiling windows in front of me offer a sweeping view of the city, the early morning light just beginning to creep over the skyline. This view never fails to remind me why I work as hard as I do and why I push myself to the edge every day.

I drop the weights and stand up straight, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension.

There's no early morning surgery today, so I've got a little more time than usual. I could have slept in, but that's never really been my style. Instead, I'm here, sweating it out, trying to clear my mind before the day starts.

The workout helps—it always does. It's a way to keep everything in check, to control the things I can before I head into the chaos of the hospital.

My mind drifts once again to the email I got last night from Theo Bench, the head of research and development at the hospital. He asked me to collaborate on a pacemaker trial study they've been working on for years. I'm thrilled to be involved with something like this and honored he thought to include me.

He wants my input to push it over the finish line, to get it ready for FDA approval so we can start human trials. Being part of something like that, something that could change lives on a massive scale is exactly why I became a surgeon in the first place.

I've been involved in plenty of cutting-edge procedures and pioneering techniques that push the boundaries of what's possible. But this is something different. This is about creating something that could save thousands, maybe millions of lives, long after I'm gone. The idea of it sets my blood pumping harder than any workout ever could.

I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face, my mind already racing ahead to the late afternoon meeting I have with him after my last surgery.

I've got clinic patients to see first, a few routine cases, nothing too taxing. It's going to be a full day, but my brain shouldn't be too fried.

I've pushed myself just far enough this morning. Standing up, I grab the towel again, wiping the sweat from my face and neck before tossing it onto a nearby bench. I walk over to the mirror that spans one wall of the room, catching a glimpse of myself.

The reflection staring back at me is familiar—broad shoulders, defined muscles, the result of years of disciplined training, both physical and mental. But it's not just about staying in shape. It's about control, about having something in my life that I can command, something that's entirely mine.

My gaze drops to the ink covering my arms, dark lines and intricate designs that start at my wrists, wrap around my biceps and trail onto my chest and back. Most people don't know about the tattoos, I like to keep them to myself.

The tattoos are more than just art—they're my civil disobedience, a big middle finger to the life that was curated for me. I run a hand over the ink on my chest, tracing the familiar patterns. It's like armor, a shield I wear under my clothes, keeping the real me hidden from the world.

Outwardly, I play the game—I follow the rules, I do the work, and I deliver the results. But inside, there's always that simmering anger, that need to push back, to break the rules when I can get away with it. Occasionally I have to remind myself that I'm in control of my life, not anyone else.

Turning away from the mirror, I grab my towel and head for the shower. Today's another day for me to show up and do my thing. This new project has me excited, something new, something big. It's going to be a great day.

UAB Hospital

10:47 am

The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, already running through the list of patients I've seen this morning. It's been a routine day so far, with no major surprises, but I could use a caffeine boost before the afternoon surgery.

I hit the button for the top floor, where the good coffee is, and lean back against the cool metal wall.

Just as the doors are about to close, a hand shoots out to stop them. The doors open again to reveal Shep Duncan, his familiar tall frame filling the space. He nods at me as he steps inside, his expression a mix of focus and mild irritation.

"Hunter," he greets me, and I give him a nod in return.

"Shep, brother, what's up?" Shep is a neurosurgeon here. We've been working side-by-side for years. I would consider him one of my good friends at the hospital.

"Got a second to talk about a patient?" he asks, his tone clipped, businesslike.

"If you can walk and talk. I'm heading up for a coffee," I reply, already mentally preparing for whatever discussion is about to unfold. "I've got a clinic patient in a few minutes."

"Sure," Shep agrees without hesitation, and we settle into the elevator's slow ascent.

"Who's the patient you want to talk about?" I ask, glancing at him as the numbers tick upward.

"Mrs. Falworth," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know she's your patient for the arrhythmia, but she's been seeing me for some neuro issues—dizziness and a bit of memory loss. I'm thinking it might be related to her smoking, combined with her heart problems."

I stifle a groan. "Shep, I've told her a hundred times she has to stop smoking. That arrhythmia isn't going to get better if she keeps puffing away like a chimney."

Shep nods, his face grim. "I know. I've had the same conversation with her. She's not listening, though. I think it's more habit than anything at this point. She's in denial about what it's doing to her body."

"Denial or not, it's going to kill her if she doesn't quit," I snap, the frustration seeping into my voice. "We can treat her arrhythmia, but if she doesn't make some changes, we're just putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound."

The elevator dings, and we step out into the hallway, heading toward the coffee shop. The smell of freshly brewed coffee greets us, and I make a beeline for the counter, Shep keeping pace beside me.

We start walking again, and I admit it, I feel a little bad about what I just said, but not enough to take it back. Some patients you can't reach. Either because they've developed destructive habits that they can't or won't break. Or because they're just incredibly stubborn and don't want to admit that someone else could be right.

"She's stubborn. I'll give her that," Shep continues, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "But if she's not going to quit, we need to figure out how to manage her symptoms before they get worse."

We start walking again and only make it about ten steps before we hear, "Good morning, gentlemen doctors." That accent could never be mistaken for anything other than Marijka, and it brings a smile to my face.

"Good morning, nurse," we say in unison, turning to face the lined but still-beautiful older Eastern European as she gazes at us from across her desk. It's not cluttered, it's not orderly, but it's somewhere in between. Marijka is our first-generation Mama Bear nurse who doesn't pull any punches.

"I trust my two little boy toys are on their way to something important, yes?"

"Always, Mama Bear," Shep chirps back. How is he always so fucking cheerful? I nod my head to her, holding equal affection, just not as syrupy in my delivery.

I order a black coffee and wait for Shep to finish ordering his before we find a spot to stand and talk. I have exactly three minutes. The hallway is relatively quiet, with just a few nurses and doctors passing by.

"She needs more aggressive treatment," I say, taking a sip of the hot coffee. "I think, at this point, we need to consider an ablation. It's not ideal, but it might be the only way to get that arrhythmia under control, which may help some of those neurological symptoms."

Shep nods thoughtfully, staring into his cup. "And on my end, I can monitor the neuro symptoms more closely, see if there's any direct correlation with her heart issues. Maybe if we can show her the connection between the smoking and the way she has zero energy, it'll be the wake-up call she needs."

I grunt, not entirely convinced. "Maybe. But I'm not holding my breath. We can only do so much, Shep. The rest is up to her."

He sighs, and for a moment, we both just stand there, sipping our coffee in silence. It's the same story with so many patients—doing everything we can to help them, only to watch them sabotage themselves. It's frustrating, but it's part of the job.

"Let's give it one more shot," Shep finally says. "We'll push for the ablation, and I'll keep hammering home the need to quit. If that doesn't work, well, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

"Agreed," I say, finishing the last of my coffee. "I'll talk to her about the procedure at her next appointment."

Shep gives me a curt nod. "Thanks, Hunter. I'll keep you in the loop on my end."

"Same here," I reply as we start walking back toward the elevators. "Good luck with her."

He smirks, but it's a weary one. "Yeah, I'll need it."

We part ways as the elevator doors close behind me, and I let out a long breath. Another day, another battle with patients who refuse to help themselves. But we keep fighting because that's what we do.