The heavy brass stamp hovered two inches from the gurney’s footrail.
Enforcer Ward sneered through his rubber respirator, his crimson goggles reflecting the dim yellow bulb of the concourse. “No reflection on the steel door, clerk! Under Rule B-1, your transport pass is dead in the water!”
Julian Vance didn’t flinch.
He looked at Ward’s thick arm thrust through the diamond-mesh flap. In Julian’s mind, the layout of a hospital charter was no different from a commercial invoice. Every clause had margins.
Every rule had a manufacturer’s tolerance.
Beside him, Elena kept one hand pressed firmly against Clara’s chest, her fingers feeling the steady mechanical rhythm of the Hamilton ventilator. Her dark eyes were fixed on the heavy brass stamp in Ward’s grip.
“That stamp touches this bed frame, Ward,” Elena said, her voice dropping into a deadly, clinical hush, “and you commit an unprovoked assault against an active trauma patient. That’s a capital breach of the 1974 Charter.”
Ward laughed, a wet, phlegmy rattle inside his respirator. “The 1974 Charter was superseded twenty years ago, nurse. You’re quoting obsolete bylaws.”
