The morning shift had barely started, but Ward 6B already felt like a battlefield.
Nur Sofea , crisp in her white uniform, moved quickly past the nurses' station, her arms full of temperature charts and IV medication slips. Her shoes made soft, determined steps against the hospital floor. A rhythm she'd memorized by heart.
She greeted patients with a warm smile, even when her body ached from yesterday's double shift. She paused beside Bed 12, where an elderly man was sleeping with his mouth slightly open, oxygen cannula still in place. His oxygen saturation had been dipping all night.
Sofea checked the machine, then gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "Mr Rahman, can you hear me? I'm just going to adjust your mask, okay?"
He didn't stir. But she caught the slight rise and fell off his chest. Still breathing. Still fighting. Just like her.
By 9 a.m., she was already sweating under her uniform. Her back ached from leaning over so many beds. Her name was called six times in five minutes. Once by a patient, once by a doctor, and four times by people who didn't even bother to look up from their phones when they said it.
"Nurse, where's the doctor?"
"Nurse, the water bottle is empty."
"Nurse, my father's blood pressure is high again. Did you give him the meds?"
"Nurse, we've been waiting since morning!"
She wanted to scream. But she smiled. Like always. This was her job. Her duty. Her calling.
++++
The quiet hum of the central air system filled the room, blending with the faint rustle of designer curtains swaying in the morning breeze. The suite was the size of a city apartment with marble floors, high ceilings, and bespoke dark wood furniture imported from Italy. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of the Kuala Lumpur skyline, the Twin Towers catching the first kiss of golden light.
Standing before an oversized walk-in wardrobe, Rayyan Iskandar adjusted his charcoal grey Armani blazer, his expression as polished as the cufflinks on his wrist engraved with his initials, 'Rayyan'
Behind him, three maids stood in silent formation, dressed in pristine uniforms. They moved like clockwork. One held out his leather briefcase, another brushed invisible dust from his shoulder, the third stood nervously with a steaming cup of single-origin black coffee.
Rayyan's wristwatch ticked softly. It is a Patek Philippe watch. Elegant and understated, yet worth more than an average year's salary.
One of the maids, Madam Mona, hesitated before speaking.
"Mr. Rayyan, I am so sorry," she spoke gently, almost regretting the words the moment they left her lips.
"Madam Suraya isn't coming today. She's not feeling well."
Rayyan didn't turn. His gaze remained fixed on his reflection. He stayed calm, composed, and utterly unreachable. He adjusted the cufflink on his left wrist. Platinum. Monogrammed. Clean.
"Then the rest of you will work harder," he said coolly.
No emotion. No pause. His voice was smooth, like polished steel and just as cutting.
"If one of you is absent," he continued, slipping his watch onto his wrist, "the rest must carry her weight. That is the cost of keeping your place here."
The maids lowered their heads. He finally turned from the mirror, rolling down his sleeves with practiced elegance. His presence filled the room like smoke. Not loud, not rushed, but impossible to ignore.
"I don't tolerate inefficiency. And I certainly don't reward weakness," he added, reaching for his briefcase.
"Yes, Mr. Rayyan. Forgive me," the maid nodded quickly. He didn't respond. He simply walked past them.
Rayyan crossed the room with deliberate ease and lowered himself onto the edge of the leather couch, a smooth black Italian hide, custom-built to fit the modern austerity of the suite. The marble beneath his slippers gleamed under the soft white light, cold and unyielding, like the man himself.
One of the maids immediately knelt before him, head bowed as she carefully removed the leather slippers he had slipped on earlier. Without a word, she reached for the polished black Oxfords, already waiting at her side, and began placing them on his feet.
Rayyan didn't flinch, didn't acknowledge her. His fingers were already tapping the screen of his phone. He held it to his ear as he leaned back slightly. The call clicked through.
"Danish," he said without preamble. His voice was low, firm. The kind that never needed to raise itself to command attention.
"Yes, Mr. Rayyan." The voice on the other end answered immediately.
Rayyan's gaze settled on the skyline beyond the glass, the corners of his mouth set in that same neutral stillness he wore like armor.
"The meeting with the board is at ten. Prepare the financial report for the third quarter. I want projections for next month's restructuring included."
"Yes, sir. Noted."
A soft click came from below. The maid had finished lacing his shoe. She gently tapped the sole to make sure it was snug, then moved to the next one, working quickly, precisely.
"And tell the hospital matron. I want the patient satisfaction index reviewed. I want every complaint from the last three months on my desk by this evening," Rayyan continued, tone unchanging,
"Yes, sir."
He ended the call, lowered the phone, and finally glanced down as the maid gave a final tug on the second shoe. She waited, hands poised, unsure whether to stand. He didn't thank her. He didn't look twice. He simply rose, sharp and flawless in his form and left her on the floor as though she were no more than a fixture of the house.
++++
Sofea was finally catching her breath behind the ward's glass-panel door, sipping cold water from a reusable bottle, when her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She glanced at the screen. 'Larisa (Home)'
Her shoulders tensed. Not now. The phone kept vibrating. Sofea sighed, stepped away from the nurses' station, and answered quietly.
"What is it?"
"Can you come back early today? Mom's coughing again and I have no time to take her to the clinic," Her younger sister's voice came sharp and straight, like always.
"Larisa, I have back-to-back shifts. I took care of her last night. It's your turn in the morning," Sofea replied, keeping her tone measured.
"I'm busy, okay? I have orders coming in nonstop. I can't just close the stall whenever I want," said Larissa.
"And I can't just leave the hospital. I work in a ward, Larisa. People depend on me." Sofea leaned against the wall, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Oh please," Larisa snapped. "You think your job is so high and mighty just because you wear white and use big words. I'm out here earning real money, Sofea. Every single day. No holiday, no MC." Sofea closed her eyes. The familiar sting behind her ribcage returned. It is guilt, frustration, exhaustion. All layered tight.
"I'll call Mom later," she said flatly.
"You always say that. Whatever. Don't be surprised if she ends up in the hospital one of these days." The line went dead. Sofea stared at the screen for a moment. Then locked it, shoved it back into her pocket, and took a long, slow breath.
++++
Larisa ended the phone call with a sharp tap, her chest rising with frustration. The sound of the disconnect beep barely faded before she tossed her phone onto the counter, face flushed with anger.
"Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath. The heat from the grill behind her seemed to match the heat in her chest. Her hands, though used to the rhythm of flipping skewers and arranging packets of nasi lemak, trembled slightly as she moved. It wasn't the work, it was Sofea. Her sister's voice still echoed in her mind. As if Larisa had a hand in everything that went wrong. As if she didn't have enough burdens of her own. She barely noticed the figure approaching until his shadow cast across the counter.
"You look like you're about to set this stall on fire," came a smooth, teasing voice. She looked up to find Nizam, in casual clothes and sunglasses pushed up on his head, grinning at her like a man who'd just won the lottery. The sight of him. Tall, annoyingly handsome, and infuriatingly confident made her want to both sigh in relief and slap someone.
"Not now," she said sharply, turning her back to him as she grabbed a pair of tongs. "Bad timing."
But Nizam wasn't the kind of man who backed off easily. He leaned his arms on the counter, eyes following her as she worked.
"Really? I thought I came at the perfect time. Just when you need someone to ruin your mood even more." She exhaled through her nose, lips tightening to suppress a reluctant smile. It was impossible to stay mad when he was around and he knew it.
"My sister's being ridiculous," she snapped, finally turning back to face him. He chuckled, raising both eyebrows.
"I did take leave today. Just to see you, by the way."
She blinked. "You what?"
"Took leave. Told the hospital I needed a break. Too much stress, not enough Larisa."
She gave him a skeptical look, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. "You're unbelievable."
"Only for you," he said, voice softening. He leaned in closer across the counter, eyes glinting. "Though I have to say… you look kinda hot when you're mad."
She shook her head and returned to the counter, the heat in her chest now of an entirely different kind.
++++
The glass doors at the front of Solis Medical Centre slid open with a quiet hiss but the shift in energy was loud enough to ripple through the building. Receptionists sat straighter. Staff nurses adjusted their hair. Security guards stood taller. Even the cleaners paused mid-swipe, lowering their heads in silent respect.
Because Rayyan Iskandar, the CEO of Solis Group, had entered the hospital.
Tall, sharp-featured, and dressed in a perfectly pressed black suit, Rayyan moved with the quiet confidence of someone who didn't need to raise his voice to be heard. His presence carried weight. Not because he was loud, but because everyone knew what he could do with a single phone call.
A nurse at the lobby whispered to another, "Why is he here in the morning? I thought the board meeting will be in the next two weeks?"
"No idea. Just don't make eye contact."
Rayyan didn't stop to acknowledge anyone. His eyes were hidden behind sleek sunglasses, his jaw tight. He walked past them like a man walking through air. Untouched and untouchable. Behind him trailed his assistant, Danish, holding a leather file and tapping away on a phone.
The automatic lift doors were already open by the time he reached them. Danish stepped aside to let him in first. As they ascended, a nurse near the counter finally exhaled.
"That man…" she whispered, heart pounding in her chest.
"He doesn't even need to speak to make the air feel heavy."
++++
In the elderly ward, the morning wasn't just busy. It was relentless.
The air was heavy with the scent of eucalyptus oil, talcum powder, and damp sheets. Overhead, the fluorescent lights hummed faintly as Sofea moved swiftly from bed to bed, her white nurse uniform already wrinkled at the elbows. The silence of the patients was broken only by laboured breathing, occasional coughs, and the creak of worn bedrails.
She stood beside Bed 8, gently peeling away the gauze from a patient's shin. The wound was angry, raw, and oozing slightly at the edge. Her touch was firm but careful, her face unreadable, focused.
"Mr. Rahim," she said softly, "I'll clean this up for you. It might sting a bit, okay?"
The elderly man gave a slight nod, eyes clouded with age and pain.
With practiced hands, Sofea cleansed the wound, applied new antiseptic, and rewrapped the leg with fresh gauze. Her gloves crinkled as she tied off the end neatly and checked his chart. No complaints. No praise. Just another task in a long list waiting to be done.
Then,
"Sofea!"
The sharp voice came from behind. She turned to see Matron Hasidah approaching briskly, clipboard in hand and eyebrows raised in mild impatience.
"Yes, Matron?"
Matron Hasidah held out a light green folder that held indent forms, the request for medication supplies. It bore today's date, the Elderly Ward's name, and a neatly stapled list of requested drugs.
"Pharmacy needs this by eleven. Go now before the line builds up," the Matron said.
"Understood." She turned to the nurse beside her, Farah, hair neatly tucked under her scarf with sleeves rolled up mid-duty,
"Farah, can you help cover me for a bit? I've got to send the indent," Sofea said quickly, already peeling off her gloves
"That long list of meds? Again?" Farah arched her brow.
"Unfortunately," Sofea muttered, grabbing the green folder from the desk. "Just check on Bed 5's IV line and remind the new aide to reposition Bed 11. He missed it last round."
Farah gave a half-sigh, half-smile. "Go. I've got it. But you owe me a cup of milk tea after shift."
Sofea flashed a grateful smile and darted out, the folder clutched tightly to her chest. Behind her, Farah slipped on gloves, already moving to the next patient like she'd been doing it all her life. Seamless, competent and steady.
In a ward like this, backup wasn't a luxury. It was survival.
++++
The boardroom on the 12th floor of Solis Medical Centre was cold, not just from the air-conditioning but from the silence that settled the moment Rayyan Iskandar walked in.
He didn't speak as he entered. He didn't need to.
The Medical Director, Hospital Matron, Finance Manager, and two Heads of Department were already seated, pretending not to be tense. Danish, his ever-efficient assistant, placed a sleek leather file in front of him as Rayyan took the head seat.
"Let's begin," Rayyan said, voice calm and clipped.
No greetings. No small talk. The meeting launched into quarterly performance reports. Mostly numbers, occupancy rates, staff shortages, patient satisfaction scores. Halfway through, Rayyan cut off the Finance Manager mid-sentence.
"You're telling me the hospital is operating at 92% bed occupancy and yet, patient feedback is down 17%?"
Dr. Khairil, a Hospital Director, jumped in to explain. "We've been severely understaffed, Mr. Rayyan. Many nurses are burning out. We've tried hiring additional manpower but,"
"Then train better," Rayyan said, flipping the page of the report. "Or make them work harder. Or fire the ones dragging their feet. This is a hospital, not a daycare."
Silence.
"Clean up your ground team. I want consistency. No excuses. We don't run Solis on pity. We run it on results," he added, barely glancing up.
He dismissed the meeting after 30 minutes, ignoring the tension in the air.
Danish caught up to him at the lift.
"Back to the HQ office?" Rayyan nodded once.
++++
Sofea stepped out of the ward office, a stack of documents balanced in one hand. Mostly drug indenting forms due at the pharmacy by noon. The trolley she was supposed to use had a broken wheel, so she was carrying it herself, careful not to drop anything.
Her mind was already miles ahead. Tracking drug names, patient charts, who needed a stat dose and who hadn't passed urine since morning. She didn't notice the executive corridor had gone unnaturally quiet.
Then it happened. A sharp turn. The edge of her shoe clipped the base of the wall. And the file in her hands exploded. Papers scattered across the polished floor, fluttering like leaves in a storm. Some slid under the wall panel, others landed squarely at the polished black shoes of a man standing still.
She froze. He is Rayyan.
He stood like a monolith. Tall and suited. Every inch of him is shaped by wealth and power. The hallway seemed to shrink around his presence. Behind him, his assistant Danish clutched a tablet, eyebrows arched in visible discomfort.
Sofea dropped to the floor at once, her fingers scrambling to collect the forms, heart pounding so loud she could barely hear herself breathing.
She forced her eyes upward, only for a second. His gaze was already on her. Cold. Sharp. Disgusted.
"I… I'm so sorry, sir," she stammered, cheeks flushed, head bowed low. "It was…It was my fault, I…"
Rayyan didn't blink. He tilted his head slightly, voice low but perfectly clear.
"Obviously."
Sofea froze. He took a single step closer. Neither to help nor to offer decency, but to remind her of the ground she was beneath.
"Next time, if you decide to crawl across my path. Make sure you don't drag your incompetence with you."
Danish's eyes widened slightly. He didn't dare say a word. Rayyan looked down one last time, as if considering whether to say more, then dismissed her completely and continued walking, his footsteps echoing like a judgment.
Sofea remained on her knees, clutching the last sheet in her hand, breath caught in her throat. She didn't know his name. Not yet. But she'd remember that voice. That look. That humiliation. And one day, she would hear it again. Only from the other side of the line.