Chapter 2 - The Weight of a Stranded Life
"Sir! Sir, can you hear me?" Ethan dropped to his knees beside the old man, unmindful of the hard terrazzo biting into his joints.
The man was perhaps in his late seventies, wearing a tweed coat that smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and old paper. His silver hair was disheveled, plastered against a forehead that felt cold and damp to the touch. His breathing came in shallow, rattling gasps, his lips trembling so hard he couldn't form words.
"Easy, easy," Ethan murmured, sliding his hands gently beneath the man’s shoulders to support his head. "Don't try to get up yet. Just breathe."
"My... my chest," the old man rasped, his voice thin as dry paper. His fingers clutched at the lapel of his coat with terrifying strength, his knuckles white. "My medicine... in the side pocket..."
Ethan didn't hesitate. He plunged his hand into the deep pocket of the tweed coat, his fingers brushing past a handful of receipts before closing around a small, prescription plastic bottle. He pulled it out, reading the label: Nitroglycerin.
"Is this it?" Ethan asked urgently. "Do you need me to help you take one?"
The old man nodded weakly, his eyes half-closed.
Ethan popped the cap, shook a single tiny tablet into his palm, and carefully placed it beneath the old man's tongue, supporting his head with his forearm. "Let it dissolve. Just stay still."
Around them, the circle of onlookers had stopped, but none had moved closer. A few travelers murmured critiques about whether the kid knew what he was doing, while one woman recorded the scene with her phone, shaking her head.
"Well, well, well. Look at our little hero playing paramedic on company time."
Ethan flinched as a heavy hand clamped down onto his shoulder, hauling him upward with unceremonious force.
It was Marcus Vance.
The manager’s face was dark with fury, his eyes bulging slightly behind wire-rimmed glasses. He pointed a thick, manicured finger at Ethan’s chest. "What did I tell you about leaving your station, Hayes? What did I explicitly say not ten minutes ago?!"
"Mr. Vance, he’s having a cardiac event!" Ethan protested, trying to shield the old man with his body. "Look at him! He couldn't even breathe!"
"I don't care if he’s having a heart attack on Mars!" Marcus hissed, his voice rising in an angry, uncontrolled pitch that turned heads across the C-concourse. "We have airport medical personnel for emergencies! We have protocol! Your station was unmanned for four minutes while passengers were backing up all the way to the security checkpoint!"
"He dropped right here! Nobody else was doing anything!"
"And neither should you have!" Marcus roared, his face flushing a deep, mottled purple. "You think you’re above the rules, Hayes? You think you can abandon your post whenever a stray traveler falls over? You are off the clock permanently. Take off that vest. Hand over your access badge. You’re fired, effective immediately."
The words hit Ethan like a physical blow. Fired. All his careful planning, the hours sacrificed, the rent money, the insurance copays—gone in thirty seconds because he chose to help a dying man instead of guarding a computer terminal.
Ethan swallowed hard, fighting down the hot sting of tears behind his eyelids. Without a word, he unclipped his plastic nametag, unzipped his navy vest, and laid them both on the clean marble floor beside the old man’s suitcase.
"There," Ethan said quietly, his voice shaking with suppressed rage and grief. "Your station is unmanned now. Have a nice day."
He turned on his heel, pulling his backpack from his shoulder, ready to walk away into the terminal crowd.
"Wait."
The voice was low, but it possessed a strange, gravitational pull that made Ethan stop.
The old man had stopped trembling.
The gray pallor had begun to recede from his cheeks, replaced by a slow, controlled flush of color as the medication took effect. He didn't look like a helpless victim anymore. He sat up slowly, leaning his back against the base of the structural pillar, his slate-blue eyes locking onto Ethan with an intensity that felt like a laser beam.
Marcus Vance sneered, looking down at the old man with utter contempt. "Save your breath, old timer. The boy’s gone. And if you don't get your luggage off this floor, I’ll have airport security haul you both out to the curb."
The old man didn't blink. He didn't yell, and he didn't beg.
Instead, he reached into the deep inside pocket of his tweed coat with a steady, unhurried hand.
He pulled out a phone.
It wasn't a standard consumer smartphone. It was a matte-black device encased in brushed titanium, completely devoid of brand logos, its screen dark and framed by an industrial cryptographic bezel.
Marcus Vance scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "What is that, a toy? Put it away before I call the cops."
The old man ignored the manager completely. He pressed a single recessed button on the side of the titanium slab, bringing the device to his ear.
May you like
He waited half a second for the encrypted connection to bridge, and then he spoke three quiet words that would change the trajectory of Ethan Hayes's life forever.
"Send the car."
