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chapter two
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🩺 AUDREY "DREY" JACKSON 🩺
                THE ALARM DOESN'T get a chance to sound. Audrey Jackson's eyes snap open at 4:43 a.m., like always. No hesitation. No lingering in bed. She swings her long legs over the side, feet meeting the cold hardwood of her penthouse floor. The city outside is still dark, wrapped in its quiet.
She moves through her morning routine like muscle memory.
Tea first—ginger and turmeric, steeped precisely four minutes. She doesn't rush. Doesn't multitask. She stands still in her kitchen, lit only by the under-cabinet glow strip, eyes tracking the steam curling upward from her mug.
The glassy silence of the penthouse is something she used to crave—a stark contrast to the noise of her childhood home. But lately, the quiet feels heavier.
She takes her vitamins, one at a time, and lines up the pill bottles afterward in a perfect row. Her reflection stares back at her from the stainless-steel fridge: calm, collected, unsmiling. She doesn't bother forcing a smile.
She brushes her teeth and showers in water hot enough to turn her skin red. By the time she's stepping out and drying off her tattoos—arms covered in blackwork floral sleeves, a lioness on her back—the sky outside has begun to lighten.
Audrey dresses in her usual uniform: something casual, soft-soled black sneakers, a silver watch, and a white medical jacket with her name and credentials embroidered over the left breast.
Audrey Jackson, MSN, NP-C.
She pins her heavy locs into a low bun—something easy and simple. Then applies a layer of lip balm, knowing it could be a bit windy out.
She looks like she's got it all together. She always does.
But she hasn't slept more than three hours in weeks. She already knows today will drag.
Walking back into her kitchen, she grabs the lunch bag she packed the night before, along with her work bag, before exiting her home—only making her way down to the underground garage after the alarm is set.
Stepping off the elevator, she turns immediately, eyes landing on her two cars. As usual, she gets into her all-black Honda HR-V. The blacked-out Durango? Reserved for when she's with her siblings or just a night out.
⸻
By 6:30 a.m., Audrey steps into the clinic through the staff entrance. It's a mid-size, underfunded community health center on the South Side, mostly serving low-income and uninsured patients. The building is clean but old—chipped linoleum, humming fluorescents, cheap plastic chairs in the waiting room.
But Audrey makes it work. Because she has to. Because she always does.
Her coworkers greet her with tired smiles. She offers soft nods and polite hellos as she slips behind the front desk and into the back.
Her first patient is a walk-in.
Room 2.
A young Black man, no older than seventeen, sits on the edge of the exam table. He has a busted lip, a bandaged forearm, and is holding his side like it hurts to breathe.
Audrey knocks once before entering.
"Morning," she says gently. "I'm Audrey Jackson, Nurse Practitioner here. What's going on with you today?"
He doesn't speak right away. His eyes are wary. He looks like someone who's been trained not to trust too easily.
"Busted up," he mutters. "Fell. That's it."