The sedan slowed down and turned into a narrow, gated alleyway.

We stopped behind a brick building with no sign and no windows on the ground floor.

The driver stepped out into the downpour and opened my door.

He held a large black umbrella over me as Vincent helped me step onto the wet pavement.

My boots splashed into a shallow puddle, the cold water soaking through the leather.

Vincent guided me through a heavy steel door that opened with a soft, electronic buzz.

The air inside smelled of bleach, rubbing alcohol, and old paper.

It was a private medical clinic, clean, silent, and brightly lit.

A tall man in a tailored grey suit and a white lab coat stood by a stainless steel counter.

His silver hair was combed back, and his hands were scrubbed clean.

“Mr. Moretti,” Dr. Hale said, bowing his head slightly.

“She has a broken arm, Hale,” Vincent said, taking off his wet overcoat.

“Take care of it.”

Dr. Hale nodded and motioned for me to sit on the vinyl examination table.

The white paper crinkled loudly under my weight.