Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of the Small
The neonatal intensive care unit was a quiet, warm room filled with the soft, rhythmic clicking of incubators and the gentle, blue glow of phototherapy lights. It felt like a sacred place, entirely separate from the dirty, violent world I operated in.
I stood before Incubator Seven.
Inside, resting on a tiny, heated mattress, was a baby. He was so small he could have fit in the palm of my hand. His skin was a delicate, translucent pink, and a network of tiny blue veins ran across his chest. He had a patch of dark, downy hair on his head—my hair—and his tiny fingers were curled into tight fists.
"He looks like you, Mr. Cross," a nurse said softly, stepping up beside me. She didn't look at me with fear; in this room, she only saw a father staring at his child.
"Is he... is he in pain?" I asked, my voice a low, rough whisper. I had never felt so giant, so clumsy, so incredibly dirty in my entire life.
"No," she said, adjusting a tiny tube near his nose. "He’s comfortable. We have him on a mild sedative to help him rest. He’s a fighter, sir. He’s been stable since he arrived."
I reached through the circular rubber ports of the incubator, my thick, scarred hand looking monstrous next to his tiny frame. I slowly extended my index finger.
The baby’s hand shifted. His tiny, warm fingers wrapped around my finger, holding on with a grip that felt stronger than any contract I had ever signed.
A tear, hot and silent, slipped down my cheek, dripping onto the clean sleeve of my suit.
"Your name is Liam," I whispered to him, my voice cracking. "Liam Cross. And I swear to you, by the breath in my lungs, no one will ever hurt you again. No one will ever make you hide."
I stood there for an hour, my finger held captive by my son, while my mind plotted the complete, systematic destruction of every person who had brought us to this room.
When I finally stepped out of the NICU, Miles was waiting for me in the hallway. His phone was in his hand, his face pale.
May you like
"Adrian," he said. "Robert Reed is at the warehouse. He’s talking. He’s trying to negotiate."
"There are no negotiations, Miles," I said, wiping the tear from my cheek as the cold, hard mask of the Devil of Manhattan settled back over my features. "Get the car."
