Irina gazed at Ivan Stepanovich, a bitter sensation stirring within her chest. Her feelings towards this man had not wavered — they were as cold as the first time she had crossed paths with him, back when he had been an eager young doctor. Back then, she had been his mentor, and even then, she had seen through his facade. It was evident that Ivan would never amount to anything more than an average doctor, and worse still, he never seemed interested in improving. His indifference to the craft had always irked Irina, and she made sure to voice her criticisms. They were never unjustified; each reprimand had been a reflection of his laziness. And now, here he was, seated across from her, his appearance bloated and slovenly, a far cry from the bright-eyed young man she had once mentored.

Irina couldn't help but note how he had transformed over the years: his belly barely fitting beneath the desk, his face sporting the smug expression of someone who had risen not through skill or effort, but by leveraging connections.

"Irina Pavlovna," Ivan began, reclining in his chair with a self-satisfied air, "Let’s dispense with the formalities. We're both adults here. Honestly, I wouldn’t have hired you, but I’ll make an exception. Do you know why? To feed my ego."

His words hung in the air like a stinging slap. But Irina, unfazed, offered a wry smile.

"You're right. You've always had a sharp mind," she replied, her voice steady.

"Moreover, no one else would hire you as a doctor, of course. You wouldn't even make it as a nurse. But I’m willing to offer you a position as an orderly today," Ivan grinned mockingly, his yellowed teeth flashing in the dim light.

"I didn’t expect much else," Irina replied, her insides curling in shame.

"How else did you think it would go? With your history, you should be grateful for any position."

"Thank you. When do I start?"

"Go find the head nurse. She’ll show you the ropes. All the best, Irina Pavlovna."

Irina turned and left the office, her heart burning with indignation. She wasn’t being hired anywhere — not in her field, nor in any other capacity. And all of this was because of the seven years she had spent behind bars. Seven years for killing her husband.

Her story was nothing special — it was as old as time. Irina had been a dedicated professional, one who poured herself into her work, while her husband grew increasingly resentful of the time she spent at the hospital. His demands for her attention grew more suffocating, and at first, his words were the only weapons he used. But as time passed, the words gave way to violence, and he would strike her every time she came home late from work. Each attack escalated, each blow growing more violent.

Over time, Irina had become a shadow of herself, a woman terrified of her own home. One day, when his rage reached its peak, she grabbed the first object within reach — a heavy frying pan. She swung it with all her strength, striking him in the head.

It wasn’t an act of malice — it was self-defense. But no one saw it that way. Her husband was well-liked, respected in the community, a philanthropist who supported animal shelters. Irina’s reputation, on the other hand, had soured long ago. No one believed her when she said she had been abused. She had never told anyone about the violence. It was simply too embarrassing.

In the end, she served her sentence, every last day of it. When she was released, there was no place for her to go. Her husband’s relatives had taken the apartment, and her aunt reluctantly took her in, but only with the understanding that Irina couldn’t stay forever.

“I’ve always lived alone, Irina. I like my space. I’m used to having everything in its place. If you move something, even by accident, it’ll make me uncomfortable. We’ll end up arguing over nothing,” her aunt had explained with brutal honesty.

Irina understood. She was grateful for her aunt’s candor and promised to find her own way. She needed work, any work, to avoid being a burden. And she would find something — eventually.

The hospital had undergone many changes since she was last there. Most of the old staff had left, and as one of the remaining orderlies, an elderly woman named Baba Elena, confided in Irina, it was because of the corrupt, tyrannical director who had driven everyone away.

Irina chuckled softly: “Baba Elena, you’re too harsh. I’m sure he’s just a little pompous and self-centered.”

“It’s not harsh. You’ll see for yourself when you start working here. The whole place is falling apart!” Baba Elena muttered as she cleaned the floors, crossing herself occasionally.

Irina hadn’t been working at the hospital for long, but it didn’t take her long to see that Baba Elena was right. The place was a disaster. People brought their own medications for their relatives. Patients arrived with their own sheets and blankets. The food in the cafeteria was something best left unspoken.

"Is it like this everywhere, or is it just here?" Irina asked a weary doctor one day.

"Things are bad everywhere, but here, it’s the worst," he replied with a sigh.

“Why?” Irina asked. “When I worked here before, things were much more organized.”

“The management steals whenever they can. But when there’s nothing left to steal, they start cutting corners — and that’s when the chaos really begins,” the doctor explained.

Irina soon learned that many hospitals now had sponsors who provided financial backing. One such sponsor had been admitted to the hospital and was being treated in the most luxurious ward, with all the comforts money could buy.

But as the nurses said, this man, despite his wealth, was beyond saving. The doctors were trying everything, but nothing seemed to work.

“He used to be so energetic,” Baba Elena sighed, shaking her head. “He would chase Ivan Stepanovich around, scolding him for being lazy. Now, look at him.”

Irina asked, “If he has so much money, why doesn’t he go abroad for treatment?”

“He doesn’t care anymore,” Baba Elena said quietly. “He’s given up. Doesn’t want anything anymore.”

That evening, after her shift, Irina decided to visit this millionaire. She was curious, but not out of concern for his health. She had worked on a cure for the very disease he was suffering from during her university years. Slowly, the others had dropped out, leaving her to continue the research alone. But she had never been able to take it far enough to begin testing.

She entered the ward quietly, asking, "May I come in?"

The man turned his head slowly, his gaze sharp but intrigued. “Yes?”

Irina took a seat near the bed, scrutinizing the man before her. Every symptom matched what they had studied back then.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, though her heart was racing.

He looked at her with a half-smile. “How do you think? You’re not a doctor, are you?”

“Well, not right now,” Irina replied carefully, preparing herself for what came next.

“What do you mean?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

Irina took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you my story, and maybe you’ll understand.”

For the next twenty minutes, she poured out everything — her arrest, her time in prison, her struggles after being released, and her current position as an orderly at the hospital. She hadn’t spoken this much in years, but the words flowed easily, faster than she could process them.

When she finished, the man exhaled deeply, his expression thoughtful. “That’s a novel-worthy story. So, how’s the situation with Ivan Stepanovich?”

“What do you think?” Irina replied, forcing a calm tone.

He sighed. “I’d love to kick him out myself. But let’s leave that to someone else.”

“Why not you? You see how bad things have gotten here,” Irina asked cautiously.

He smiled slightly. “What I see doesn’t bother me. But I’ll tell you this: you didn’t come to visit me just for a chat, did you?”

Irina hesitated. “No, I came because... well, it’s complicated. But it’s not about complaining.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What is it then?”

Irina reached into her pocket and pulled out a small vial. “I need your help.”