Chapter 13: Faggot
Trigger Warning: This Chapter contains depictions of homophobia and emotional distress. Please proceed with caution.
---
Enzo’s POV
The hospital was unusually calm today—no frantic emergencies, no chaotic traumas—just a few minor surgeries and the low hum of routine procedures. The nurses moved with measured efficiency, and even the ER, usually a hotbed of unpredictability, seemed subdued. Still, I dared not voice my relief aloud. Experience had taught me that tempting fate would only invite disaster, and the universe had a way of balancing the scales in the cruelest ways.
I had just finished reviewing charts for my next patient when a dull ache in my temples reminded me how long it had been since my last break. I decided to step away for a moment, heading toward the restroom in the far corridor. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed softly, casting a sterile glow over the pristine white walls. The scent of antiseptic and faint traces of coffee clung to the air, a familiar mix of comfort and exhaustion.
As I neared a secluded corner near the staff lounge, I slowed my steps. Low voices, hushed but sharp-edged, drifted toward me. I recognized the speakers instantly—two nurses, both seasoned enough to know better, yet never ones to pass up an opportunity for gossip. Their postures were tight, their words clipped with malice.
"Did you see them today?" one of them sneered, her voice thick with disgust.
"Hard to miss," the other replied, with a derisive chuckle. "He rode to work with Dr. Olivier this morning. Imagine that—showing up together like it’s something to be proud of."
"Shameless," the first nurse spat. "Trying to get in his good graces, no doubt. Like a man like Dr. Olivier would ever want anything to do with him. A faggot."
The slur hit the air like a slap, and my stomach twisted violently. My pulse thudded in my ears, and my breath caught in my throat. I stayed hidden, pressing my back against the cool wall, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. Every instinct screamed at me to step forward, to say something—anything—but I remained frozen.
I forced in a slow breath, but the tension in my chest refused to ease. The walls of the hospital suddenly felt suffocating, and the sterile air carried an acrid sting. I’d spent years pretending moments like this didn’t affect me, convincing myself that words held no real power.