Page 43 of For Mercy

"Is he...?"Sarah asked, her voice small and trembling.

Thomas nodded, unable to speak.He had just watched a man die, knowing he could have saved him.The weight of that knowledge settled over him like a shroud, suffocating in its intensity.

In the days that followed, as they cut their vacation short and returned home, Thomas scoured the local news.He waited for questions, for accusations, for someone to point a finger at the American doctor who had sat idle while a man died.

But nothing came.No legal repercussions, no professional consequences.He had escaped unscathed.

Yet the memory haunted him, surfacing in nightmares and quiet moments.The man's face, contorted in fear and desperation, was seared into his mind.Thomas knew he would carry this burden for the rest of his life, a constant reminder of the moment he had chosen self-preservation over his sworn duty to heal.

Thomas stared at the steaming bowl before him now, his heart hammering against his ribs.The scent of rich spices wafted up, a cruel mockery of fine dining.His stomach churned, not from hunger, but from the twisted irony of his situation.

"You want me to eat this?"he said aloud, his voice hoarse."To choke myself, just like—" The words caught in his throat.

The mechanical voice crackled again."Justice demands symmetry, Doctor.Dig in."

Thomas's mind raced, memories of that fateful night in the restaurant flooding back.The man's desperate gasps, the panicked faces of other diners.His own cowardice.

"I can't," he whispered, more to himself than his unseen captor."I won't."

A bitter laugh escaped him.Here he was again, faced with a choice between self-preservation and doing the right thing.But this time was different.This time, there was no reputation to protect, no lawsuit to fear.There was only the crushing weight of his past mistakes.

"No," Thomas said, louder this time.His voice grew stronger with each word."I won't play your sick game."

With a surge of desperate energy, he threw himself forward.His shoulder connected with the bowl, sending it flying off the table.The crash of shattering ceramic filled the room, followed by the wet splatter of food hitting the floor.

Thomas's chair teetered precariously, and for a moment, he thought he might topple over.He steadied himself, panting heavily, eyes fixed on the mess before him.

"Is this what you wanted?"he shouted into the empty room."Another spectacle of human suffering?"

Silence answered him.Thomas strained against his bonds, the metal of the handcuffs biting into his wrists.The key was out there somewhere, hidden in the wreckage of his defiance.

As the acrid scent of carbon monoxide began to fill his nostrils, Thomas realized that his act of rebellion might have just sealed his fate.But for the first time in years, he felt a flicker of something that had long been absent – not hope, exactly, but a grim satisfaction in finally choosing action over inaction.

Thomas gritted his teeth, his muscles tensing as he prepared for what he knew would be a painful maneuver.With a sharp intake of breath, he twisted his body violently to the side, throwing his weight against the chair's unstable legs.

The world tilted abruptly.For a suspended moment, Thomas felt weightless, then gravity reasserted itself with brutal efficiency.He crashed to the floor, the impact reverberating through his bones and jarring his teeth.Pain exploded in his shoulder and hip where they connected with the hard surface.

"Damn it," he hissed through clenched teeth, fighting against the wave of dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him.His face pressed against the cold, sticky floor, a mixture of spilled food and his own sweat creating a nauseating cocktail beneath his cheek.

Ignoring the throbbing ache in his body, Thomas forced himself to focus.He had to find that key.His fingers, numb from the tight handcuffs, scrabbled desperately across the floor, searching for anything that might be his salvation.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.Each second that ticked by felt like an eternity, the weight of his past choices pressing down on him as surely as the toxic air filling his lungs.

As he pushed aside chunks of broken ceramic, wincing as a shard sliced into his cheek, Thomas's thoughts raced.Was this truly justice for his inaction years ago?Or was it merely cruel revenge enacted by someone who couldn't understand the complexities of his situation?

"I didn't want anyone to die," he said aloud, his words directed at both his unseen captor and the ghost of the man he'd failed to save."I was scared.I was selfish.But this...this isn't right either."

His breath came faster now, each inhalation more labored than the last.The carbon monoxide was working its insidious magic, slowly robbing him of oxygen.Dark spots danced at the edges of his vision, and a heaviness settled in his chest.

Thomas's movements became more frantic, his search more desperate.Blood trickled down his face from the cut on his cheek, mingling with the sweat and grime on the floor.He could feel his strength ebbing, his chances slipping away with each passing second.

"Please," he whispered, a prayer to any power that might be listening."I can't die like this.Not without making it right."

And then, just as despair threatened to consume him, his fingers brushed against something cool and metallic.The key.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Morgan leaned forward in the stiff-backed chair of the FBI briefing room, her fingers splayed across countless crime scene photographs and witness statements.The clock on the wall ticked away, indifferent to the urgency that thrummed through her veins.It was late afternoon, and shadows began to creep over the piles of evidence that had become the landscape of her obsession.She'd been here for hours, the same questions circling like vultures in her mind.

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