The bathwater was hot enough to burn Maxwell Rourke’s skin, yet the paralyzed crime boss sat there without so much as a flinch.

"Martha was just finishing drying my hair, Julian," Maxwell mumbled, his voice deliberately slurred, head lolling slightly toward his left shoulder. "Leave her be."

Julian strolled into the room, his polished oxfords clicking on the hardwood. He stopped in front of Maxwell's chair, reaching down to patronizingly pat his older brother on the cheek.

"Always soft on the staff, Max. That's why the docks are bleeding money. You lost your bite the day you took those slugs." Julian turned his gaze to me. His eyes were cold, assessing, stripped of any familial warmth. "You're done here, girl. Get out."

"Wait," Dr. Vance interrupted, setting his leather case on the bedside table. He popped the brass clasps and pulled out a sterile plastic tray. Inside was a large pre-filled syringe containing a pale, amber fluid. "She can stay and hold his shoulder. The involuntary spasms were worse yesterday. I don't want him jerking when the needle seats into the port."

My heart drummed against my ribs so loudly I was certain Vance could hear it.

"Of course, Doctor," I said, keeping my voice submissive and low.

I stepped behind Maxwell’s chair, placing my hands firmly on his broad shoulders. Beneath the heavy fabric of the robe, I felt his muscles coiled tight as steel cables. He wasn't a sick man relaxing; he was a tiger preparing to pounce.

*Relax,* I thought, squeezing his shoulder blade in a subtle rhythmic pattern to signal him. *Let go, or they’ll feel the tension.*

Slowly, under my hands, Maxwell forced his muscles to turn to mush.

Dr. Vance swabbed the skin over the port with an alcohol wipe. The pungent smell filled the room. He picked up the amber syringe, tapped the barrel to dislodge a bubble, and uncapped the needle.

"Just a pinch, Maxwell," Vance murmured smoothly. "This will keep the pain away."

I leaned in, ostensibly stabilizing Maxwell's neck, but my fingers secretly adjusted the thick cotton dressing I had tucked beneath the collar of his robe.

Vance pressed the needle in.

*Click.*

The needle met the port. Vance pushed the plunger.

I held my breath. If the wax plug had melted too early, the full dose of paralytic would dump into Maxwell’s bloodstream. If it was too thick, the syringe barrel would jam, and Vance would instantly realize the port had been tampered with.

The plunger moved down slowly, meeting heavy artificial resistance. Vance frowned slightly, his thumb pressing harder.

"Vessel seems a bit sclerotic today," Vance muttered under his breath.

"Does it matter?" Julian asked from the window, staring out toward the Providence docks where massive crane lights illuminated the gray evening sky. "Just dose him. The union reps from Local 402 are waiting downstairs. They want to know who signs the terminal leases if Max is incapacitated."

"I sign them, Julian," Maxwell slurred, saliva intentionally dribbling from the corner of his lip. "I... still own the paper."

Julian let out a cruel, barking laugh. "You can't even sign your name without two nurses holding your wrist, Max. Don't worry. Little brother will take care of the ships."

Vance pulled the empty syringe free and slapped a band-aid over the site.

I watched with covert triumph as the corner of the hidden cotton pad beneath Maxwell’s collar soaked up the diverted amber fluid, completely concealed under the fold of his dark robe.

Less than ten percent had entered his system.

"He'll be asleep within twenty minutes," Vance said, snapping his bag shut. "Let him rest until morning. Nobody enters this room tonight."

"You heard the doctor," Julian said to me, flicking his cigar ash onto the immaculate floor. "Out, Martha."

I bowed my head. "Yes, sir."

I wheeled my cleaning cart out into the corridor, keeping my pace steady, normal, unassuming. But as the bedroom door clicked shut behind me, my knees nearly buckled.

He had survived the injection. But tonight, as the drug cleared his system completely, his nerves would awaken without any chemical suppression for the first time in over a year.

And from my years in neuro-rehab, I knew what was coming.

When dead nerves violently fire back to life, the human body doesn't just wake up gently.