The ICU always smelled the same—clean, cold, and faintly like metal. To most people, it was the scent of hope. To Dr. Eliot Wren, it was the scent of decisions.
He smiled as he walked past the nurses' station, exchanging nods and soft jokes with staff. His eyes sparkled with warmth. His reputation walked ahead of him—compassionate, sharp, young, the kind of doctor who made people believe again.
But inside, he was tired. Not in the physical sense. Something deeper.
Room 14.
Mr. Harold Ellison. Eighty-four. Alone. No visitors. No calls. Stage four heart failure, lungs filled with fluid. The kind of man who once lived fully, now reduced to silent suffering, tethered to machines that beeped without feeling.
Eliot walked in and sat beside the bed. He didn't wear gloves—not when saying goodbye. He believed touch still mattered.
"I read your chart again," he said gently. "You were a mechanic for thirty-two years. Married once. Divorced. Two sons. Neither called."
Mr. Ellison didn't respond. His eyes fluttered, but he wasn't awake.
"Do you know what they're planning?" Eliot continued, voice soft. "Dialysis. More diuretics. Chest taps. But your ribs are brittle. Your heart's failing. They'll try to keep you alive, but they won't stop the pain."
He reached into his coat and looked at the small vial of potassium chloride. His hand trembled slightly.
"I don't hate you. I don't want this. But I made a promise. A long time ago. That I'd never let people suffer alone. Not like..."
He stopped. A memory flashed behind his eyes—Mara, gasping for air, begging for peace, eyes wide with fear. The silence after her final breath.
He checked the door. No one watching.
Eliot connected the syringe slowly, almost reverently. As if it were a prayer.
"I hope you forgive me for this," he whispered.
The fluid pushed in quietly. The heart monitor gradually slowed.
Eliot placed his hand over Mr. Ellison's. Warm. Then cooling.
No alarms. No drama. Just stillness.
Time of death: 08:16 AM. Cause: Cardiac Arrest. Natural progression of illness.
He stood, eyes fixed on the old man's face. He didn't feel victorious.
Just... quiet.
He walked back out into the hall, slipping the vial deep into his coat pocket. A nurse smiled at him.
"Dr. Wren! You look tired."
"I'm fine," he said with a soft smile. "He's at peace now."
As he walked away, no one noticed the way his smile faltered once he was alone. Or the way he looked down at his hands like they belonged to someone else.
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End of Chapter 1.
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