GoodReadQuinn was in the throes of a fever. Her temperature had skyrocketed to an alarming 108.5 degrees, leaving the
doctor utterly horrified. In a desperate scramble, they managed to lower her fever using a combination of
physical cooling techniques and fever-reducing medication, throwing every possible solution at the problem.
Alexander, meanwhile, stood quietly to the side, his gaze fixated on her wrist. A ring of broken skin encircled it,
blisters creating a stark contrast against the pale flesh. Deep indentations from a tight grip were clearly visible, a
silent testament to her ordeal.
After two hours of relentless work, the doctor finally saw the temperature drop on the thermometer. Exhausted,
he slumped into a chair, "Mr. Kennedy, the fever has subsided. It's now 102 degrees. We'll check again in the
middle of the night to ensure it doesn't flare up. If it remains stable, she should be out of the woods."
Alexander nodded in acknowledgment before asking, "Does she have any other injuries?"
The doctor paused, taken aback. In the rush to cool Quinn down, he hadn't checked for other injuries. "I'll do a
thorough check now," he said, his gaze immediately drawn to the wounds on Quinn's wrist.
He gently lifted her hand and pulled back the blankets to inspect her ankles. "This... It appears Quinn was
restrained. These marks suggest she was struggling against bindings. The rope has nearly cut into her skin."
He continued, "There are bruises, too. I'm not certain if they're from being hit or from a fall. They look like the
result of a tumble."
Alexander remained silent, his gaze fixed on the person in bed. The doctor continued his examination, "There's a
Follow on NovᴇlEnglish.nᴇtcut on her head and sbleeding at the scalp. It seems her hair had been violently pulled." His voice trailed
off, the implication of such torture weighing heavily on him. He glanced back at Alexander, whose expression
was unreadable, but his eyes held a complex mix of emotions. "Mr. Kennedy..." "Make sure she gets proper care,
otherwise... it's on you," Alexander interjected, his words heavy with unspoken threats. The doctor, taken aback,
hastily stood up and fumbled with his medical kit. "Y-Yes, | understand," the doctor stammered nervously.
Alexander sat nearby, watching the doctor like a hawk. Even when there was nothing left to do, the doctor had to
appear busy, so he checked Quinn's pulse, pressing on her wrist.
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But the pulse check was alarming. Quinn's condition was far worse internally than she appeared. She seemed
hollowed out, as if she'd recently had a miscarriage and failed to recuperate properly, allowing various
complications to creep in unchallenged.
She now looked like a mere shell of herself. The doctor glanced cautiously at Alexander.
"Speak."
Alexander's abrupt command startled the doctor, making him withdraw his hand, the unspoken thought "This
doesn't bode well for her longevity" swallowed down in silence.
He feared what Alexander might do if he couldn't cure her. The doctor spun a little white lie. "Quinn's just got
sscratches, nothing serious. She's in pretty good shape." Alexander eyed him intently, as if trying to see
right through the doctor. After a moment, he diverted his gaze down to his phone, which had just started to ring.
It was Getty. "Alexander, you gotta save me. Sproducer's trying to screwover! The jerk, he doesn't even
know who | am."
"Hand him the phone."
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