Chapter Text
“Algesiologist,” Henry repeated patiently. “I’m an al-ge-si-o-lo-gist.”
He had found refuge near the buffet table, nursing a glass of sparkling water. His tie was already loosened, his posture betraying the long week. Two pharma reps, badges gleaming with the Rattay Concordia Medica logo, cornered him with eager smiles.
“Algesiologist? I’ve never heard of that,” a tall, black haired woman sipped her champagne. “Isn’t that anesthesiology? Putting people under?”
Henry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Not exactly. I don’t put people to sleep. Algesiology is the science of pain. I help them stay awake without suffering.”
“So… you prescribe painkillers?”
“Sometimes,” Henry shrugged. “But it’s also nerve blocks, spinal injections, multidisciplinary care, psych consults, all that.”
The second rep blinked, clearly trying to translate this into marketing terms. “So you’re… like a quality-of-life specialist.”
Henry gave a tired half-smile. “If you want a slogan, sure.”
The reps exchanged glances, still slightly baffled. The woman raised her glass.
“Well, cheers to that,” she grinned. “Pain management is the future. If you don’t count that unfortunate Oxycontin scandal in the US – and you know – we never do.”
Henry clinked his glass with her without enthusiasm. “Unfortunately, pain doesn’t wait for innovation galas.”
“No big galas for pain doctors?” The second rep swirled his champagne, smirking. “Sounds like you picked the wrong specialization if you wanted the perks.”
Both laughed and Henry forcibly joined them before slipping few steps away as they moved on.
Finally, the escape was achieved. Henry let his eyes wander across the hall. The Rudolfinum’s Dvořák Hall had been transformed into a glittering showcase not of music, but of medicine’s corporate patronage. This was no ordinary hospital fundraiser — it was a big pharma gala, the kind of event where legacy pharmaceutical companies like Rattay Concordia Medica flexed their influence.
The purpose was clear: wealthy donors, executives, and clinicians mingled under chandeliers while pledging support for St. Procopius Faculty Hospital’s new Center for Translational Medicine and Public Health. In practice, it was equal parts charity and networking — a place where research grants were whispered over champagne, partnerships sealed with handshakes, and reputations polished by association with “innovation.”
Guests arrived under a colonnaded portico lit with amber uplighting, greeted by a string quartet playing Dvořák’s Serenade for Strings. Inside, waiters circulated with trays of smoked trout canapés and mushroom pâté tartlets, while a massive floral installation spelled out Concordia in white orchids and blue delphiniums — RCM’s corporate colors. Banquet tables bore the names of Czech medical pioneers, their legacies reduced to decorative labels beside centerpieces of glass DNA helixes and microscope sculptures glowing from below.
On the far wall, a projection screen cycled through archival photos of St. Procopius Hospital: grainy shots of wards and surgical wings. Inevitably, there was Radzig in scrubs, smiling with the confidence of a man who had long ago mastered both medicine and public relations. Henry caught his own face briefly in the tribute video — awkward in a lab coat, frozen mid-step — and winced. It had to be taken years ago, during his student days when he still trailed behind his father through the anesthesiology department rounds.
Around him, champagne glasses clinked, hors d’oeuvres disappeared from silver trays, and conversations hummed with the cadence of networking rather than medicine.
Henry scanned the crowd of suits and little-blacks, searching for familiar faces, and wondered if it was alright if he could just take and eat one of those little pieces of ham on the table or if they’re just like… there but not to eat. He decided for the safer option and went for some salted half-muffins. There was already half of them gone, so clearly up for grabs.
Just one though. There’s going to be dinner later, right? Radzig promised some dinner. Or is this dinner? Damn, Henry thought, he should have bought some sandwich. Preferably from that new vending machine they installed on the third floor last week. It was by the infectious diseases ward, so the good stuff stayed even after the snack-time, as those poor sods couldn’t go for it without changing their scrubs, so no one bothered.
Henry chewed slowly and regretted he couldn’t have brought Theresa. She would have known how to glide through this kind of room or at least look like she would. But strictly speaking, even he wouldn’t have been here if it weren’t for Radzig’s date cancelling at the last moment.
That was the truth of it: he was a stand-in, a convenient son pressed into service so his father wouldn’t arrive alone. Radzig had called it “a good opportunity” and “a chance to meet people”. Right before he disappeared for another round of handshaking, that is.
Henry was still debating whether to risk another treat when a familiar voice cut through the hum of networking chatter.
“Henry! There you are.”
He turned to see Dr. Robard, one of the hospital’s senior surgeons, broad-shouldered and smelling of soap and disinfectant even in a tuxedo. Robard had known Henry since his early days as they often met “across the head” with Henry putting the patient to sleep and keeping tabs on his vitals while Robard rearranged the person’s intestines. Beside him stood a leaner man with a hawkish nose and a reserved smile — Dr. Divish, the hospital’s chief of surgery, a figure Henry had seen occasionally but never spoken to directly.
Robard clapped Henry on the shoulder with the easy familiarity.
“Divish, this is Henry Skalitz. You know, Radzig’s boy.”
Henry forced a polite smile and extended his hand to Divish, who shook it with a measured nod.
“Ah,” Divish said, his tone neutral but curious. “Those are some shoes to fill. I suppose you’ve followed in your father’s footsteps?”
Henry hesitated. “For a while, sir,” he admitted. “I trained in anesthesiology, yes. But I’ve specialized in algesiology now.”
“Pain medicine,” Robard grinned, as if proud to deliver the punchline. “He’s the one you call when they need some candy even after morphine.”
Divish’s brows lifted slightly. “Interesting. Not the most glamorous field, but certainly necessary.”
Henry gave a small shrug, his smile tight. “Necessary is enough.”
“And your father… did he approve of this switch?” The question carried just the faintest edge of condescension, maybe unintended, but Henry caught on it anyway.
“Well,” he said, a little sharper than he intended, “considering my father left anesthesiology himself for a PR job and the board, I don’t think he has much of a point to complain about.”
Robard chuckled into his champagne, while Divish’s brows arched in mild surprise. Then he gave a small, noncommittal smile, the kind that suggested he wasn’t used to being answered back so directly.
Henry took another sip of water, forcing his expression into neutrality.
“I think I see my wife over there,” Divish noted, glancing over Henry’s shoulder. “Please, excuse me.”
Henry gladly did, exchanging a nod of good bye with Robard as well.
The orchestra on the stage just finished with their piece and started a new one, some variation on Smetana’s Vltava.
Henry finished the last of his water, the neutral taste doing little for him, and thought he might do with something stronger after all. The gala’s main hall was too bright, too crowded, and he regretted even deeper that he wasn’t at home, in his pyjamas, watching something stupid on Netflix or youtube, with Mutt drooling all over his knees.
He slipped away toward the side gallery. The smaller bar was tucked behind a row of marble columns, dimly lit and blessedly unpopulated. Here, the chatter thinned, and the air smelled more of citrus and alcohol than perfume and orchids.
A bartender in a crisp white jacket polished glasses with the calm of someone who had seen every kind of guest. On the counter, a placard advertised the evening’s signature cocktail: The Concordia — gin, elderflower, grapefruit. Henry considered it, then decided a plain whiskey would do. Something simple, something that didn’t pretend to be innovation.
It was good, mature and oaky. Henry let the alcohol settle on his tongue and exhaled, shoulders loosening as he leaned against the bar.
Only then did he notice he wasn’t entirely alone. At the far end of the bar stood a man about his age — handsome, but pale under the dim lights, his posture restless, fingers tapping against the rim of a half-finished glass of what was probably gin. He looked distracted, twitchy, as if his mind was somewhere else entirely.
Henry thought he’d never judge anyone by the old stereotypes, but he’d bet his radar this one was gay. The clothes were too deliberate, too provocative in their elegance — yellow jacket, daring cut, everything expensive. Not that he’d ever hope for getting an invitation for a cup of coffee from someone… well, someone that much out of his league. But it was the way the stranger nursed the drink, eyes unfocused, made Henry pause anyway.
He shifted his own glass in hand and hesitantly made few steps closer to a relatively talking distance.
“Guess this is where the real medicine happens, hey?” Henry nodded toward the bottles lined up behind the bar.
The man glanced over, a flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth before fading. His fingers tightened around the glass as if it were an anchor.
Henry wasn’t sure why, but something about him felt fragile, like he was holding himself together by sheer will.
He shifted closer. “Sorry, to disturb you, just… you alright?”
The man blinked slowly, his gaze sliding past Henry as though he hadn’t heard the question at all. “The music’s too slow,” he muttered, voice thin, distracted. “They should play something faster.” His fingers tapped against the gin glass.
Henry frowned, concern edging in.
“I’m Henry.”
He extended his hand and the man glanced at it, but then he pulled his glass closer to his chest, protective, twitchy.
“That’s mine!”
“Sorry,” Henry said quickly, withdrawing his hand. “Didn’t mean to—”
His companion gave a crooked smile, unfocused. “It’s fine. You can have one too. They’ll pour you one.” He gestured vaguely toward the bottles, as if that explained everything. “I’m… I’m not drunk.”
Henry studied him, unsettled.
Is he drunk? Henry wondered. Certainly most likely. But something about it didn’t fit. The jitter in his hands, the restless tapping, the way his eyes darted without focus.
Maybe cocaine, Henry thought, half-cynical. The bright yellow brocade jacket, the kind of fashion that screamed money and indulgence. He looked rich enough to be on something like that, the sort of stimulant-fueled bravado Henry had seen once or twice in patients who came in after a binge.
But then again, the fragility in his posture didn’t match the stereotype. He wasn’t buzzing with energy; he was fraying at the edges, as if the room itself were too heavy to hold.
Henry took another sip of his whiskey and hesitated, then leaned a little closer, lowering his voice so it wouldn’t carry.
“Look, maybe you could use some water,” he tried to keep his tone gentle without being patronizing. “Or—if you want—I can get someone to…”
“No!” The stranger’s head snapped up, eyes suddenly sharp despite their unfocused haze. The word came out louder than Henry expected. He clutched his glass tighter, as if Henry had threatened to take it away again. “I said I’m fine! Do you hear me? I’m fine! Don’t—don’t touch me!”
The outburst cut through the muted hum of the side bar. The bartender paused mid-polish, and two nearby security staff glanced over from the entrance.
Henry raised his hands quickly, palms open, trying to diffuse the moment.
“Alright, alright,” he said softly, keeping his voice calm. “No one’s touching anything. You’re fine.”
The man’s breathing was uneven, his shoulders twitching as he tried to settle onto the bar stool and then gave up. The glass trembled in his hand, the liquid inside rippling with each jitter.
One of the security men stopped a few steps away, voice firm but not unkind. “Is everything alright here, sir?”
The question was clearly meant for the pale stranger, not for Henry. The guard’s gaze lingered on him with a kind of deferential concern, the way one might address someone important.
The man in yellow didn’t answer. He hesitated, then his glass rattled as he set it down half-finished, and without a word he walked away toward the darker edge of the gallery. His shoulders were hunched, his steps short, each one stiff as though he were bracing against something.
The security men exchanged a glance, then one of them stepped closer to Henry. His tone was firm but professional, the kind used to keep order without causing a scene.
“Sir, best if you keep your distance.”
Henry blinked, caught off guard. The warning wasn’t hostile, but it carried weight — as if they assumed he’d been bothering someone important.
“Understood,” Henry said quietly, lifting his hands in a gesture of compliance.
He picked up his whiskey again, painfully aware of how misplaced he felt, and finished it in one sip, determined to try his luck and get lost in the crowd instead.
The main hall swallowed him quickly — sequined dresses brushing past, champagne flutes clinking. The powerpoint on the wall now showed a large portrait of the hospital board director, Wenceslas Luxembourgh, politely one from at least ten years ago. He posed there with newborn triplets who made the rash decision to be born on the first of January, not escaping the attention of the hospital’s social media manager. Their mother, tired and hooked to some drip paled in the background, half covered by the director’s elbow.
Beneath the image, the caption read in bold italics:
“Hospital for People — Celebrating the Future of Care! A groundbreaking humane project championing natural motherhood and uninterrupted bonding for every family. Together, we build brighter beginnings!
In the photo: Dr. Wenceslas Luxembourgh, MD, MSc, MBA, LLD (Hon.), Dip. Econ., Cert. PR, Fellow of the National Association of Hospital Boards, Honorary Member of the International Society for Healthcare Branding, Recipient of the Golden Scalpel Award for Administrative Excellence, Lifetime Subscriber to the Journal of Medical Marketing, Recipient of the Platinum Dove for Inspirational Leadership in Patient Experience Narratives
+ happy family
Henry studied the titles for a moment, wondering if the “Dip.” stood for “Dipshit“. Regrettably, it probably did not.
He let himself be carried along the tide of people, determined to lose the awkwardness in sheer numbers and for a few minutes it worked. He wandered around, catching small fragments of talk — mergers, research grants, holiday plans — none of it meant for him, all of it a kind of white noise.
Then a familiar voice cut through the din. “Henry.”
There was Radzig — immaculate in his tailor-made suit and professionally styled hair and moustache. He moved through the hall with the ease of someone who belonged everywhere, his presence parting the crowd as people instinctively made space. He seemed a bit disconcerted, pushing an expensive phone deeper into his pocket.
“There you are,” Radzig said, his tone calm, warm, but with a tone of a man who has his own private secretary. “Been looking for you.”
Without a beat, Henry glanced to his father’s pocket, then back at him.
“So she still hasn’t texted back?“
Radzig huffed, taking a glass of champagne from a nearby tray.
“Please, Henry, a bit of decorum. I’m not asking about your boyfriends either.”
“Because that would be a very short conversation?” Henry guessed with a teasing spark. “Unless you want to talk Mutt. About him, I know everything. And besides, I’d hardly date an underwear model half my age.“
Radzig gave him a glare. “She’s a weather anchor,” he corrected. “Not an underwear model.”
“If you say so,” Henry shrugged, glancing back to the large powerpoint which was now showing a demolition of the whole wing of the hospital to make room for the new ProBeam 360° particle accelerator.
“Did they finally get funding for that?” Henry nodded towards the photo. “Or it’s still just a parking lot?”
“We’re working on it,” Radzig replied diplomatically.
“Please, don’t. Even with that finding a spot every day is a nightmare.“
“You know you’re not actually allowed to park there?” Radzig replied with a hint of irritation. “There’s a sign.”
“I think I saw your girlfriend the other day, actually,” Henry returned with the same light tone as earlier. “On a flyer, a summer sale of maternity underwear in Pepco. Cups large to XXL, buy one – grab one, 50 percent off.”
“I’m glad you’re keeping up with Pepco’s seasonal promotions, Henry. I always knew my aspirations were well-placed.” Radzig’s brow arched as he sipped his champagne. “Also, you seem remarkably curious about retail lingerie. Is it for Mutt or is there something going on I don’t know about?”
“Please, father…,” Henry huffed, finally putting his empty glass on the table.
Radzig let the silence linger just long enough to savor his veni, vidi, vici, then cleared his throat with deliberate composure.
“Come, Henry — I’m going to introduce you to someone.”
Henry blinked, wary. “That sounds ominous.”
Radzig ignored the remark, his eyes narrowing as he gave his son a slow, critical once-over. Then he reached out without hesitation, tugging Henry’s tie into a neater line, brushing a speck of lint from his shoulder, unbuttoning the last button of his suit jacket, and straightening the fold of his pocket square as if preparing him for inspection.
“Don’t tell me you kept this suit in a trunk the whole day.”
“I did,” Henry shrugged. “I come straight from hospital.”
“At least try to look presentable,” Radzig murmured, his tone dry but paternal. “If you insist on mocking my taste, the least you can do is not embarrass me with yours.”
Henry rolled his eyes, but the teasing spark hadn’t left them. “You know, you fix me up like a gala mannequin and then wonder why I don’t take you seriously.”
Radzig’s cufflinks gleamed as he adjusted them one last time, satisfied. “That’s precisely why you should.”
Radzig placed a firm hand on Henry’s shoulder and steered him through the glittering crowd toward the cordoned-off VIP section. The chandeliers scattered light across sequined gowns and black-tie suits, the hum of polite laughter swelling as they passed the velvet rope.
Hanush Leipa was waiting near a marble column, surrounded by executives. His presence was commanding, softened only by the warmth of his smile as he spotted Radzig.
“Radzig Kobyla!” Hanush spread his arms wide. “Come here, old friend. Where did you leave your little arm-candy?”
“She’s busy with some photoshoot or something,” Radzig explained though his smile stiffened a bit. “For a… Tick-Tock.”
“Oh, well, girls these days,” Hanush waved his hand.
They embraced briefly. As they did, Henry noticed the subtle flash of a camera from across the room — someone had taken a photo of the moment. He knew how easily such images could be spun: the head of a large hospital’s PR department and the owner of one of the largest pharma companies in Europe, smiling together at a gala. It raised its own controversies, whispers of collusion and influence.
But Henry also knew the truth. The two had been fast friends since they bruised each other’s noses over a battered toy truck in the sandpit of the private kindergarden. Their friendship had survived exams, careers, and the weight of public scrutiny. Whatever the optics, they kept their personal and professional lives as separate as they could.
Hanush’s gaze shifted to Henry, eyes twinkling. “And this must be your boy. Harry?“
“Henry, sir,” Henry corrected him blankly. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure all mine and all that,” Hanush nodded. “Are you also anesthesiologist? Walking in your father’s footsteps?”
Henry forced a smile, though his jaw tightened. “I used to be. Now I’m an algesiologist.”
“Ah… yes. Very good,” Hanush blinked, polite but uncertain.
Radzig’s hand tightened on Henry’s shoulder, smoothing the moment with polished authority. “He specializes in pain medicine,” Radzig explained smoothly, his tone both protective and proud. “Better than I was at his age.”
“Impossible,” Hanush grinned jovially, patting Radzig’s shoulder while already holding a large glass of beer. “Better then the best sleepy-sleep specialist of the whole St.Procopious?”
“I’m more of an ouchie-ouch kind of person,” Henry replied dryly.
Hanush took another hearty gulp of beer and leaned toward Henry, eyes sparkling.
“You know, your father once knocked me out faster than a bartender at closing time,” he boomed. “I’d come in for a… what was it, hernia? I was nervous, sweating, asking if I’d wake up again. Radzig looks me dead in the eye and says in that tone of his, ‘Yes, Hanush, unfortunately’”
He slapped Radzig’s shoulder, nearly spilling his drink. “And he was right! Next thing I know, I’m waking up and it’s all done. Best nap of my life.”
Hanush raised his glass in mock salute. “That’s your father. The Beethoven of bedtime. If he weren’t a doctor, he’d be running the world’s most successful spa.”
“I’m glad I could do it over a mask,” Radzig said, adjusting his cufflinks once again with deliberate calm. “With that hyo of yours you’d be a nightmare to intubate. A real bitch, frankly.”
Hanush roared with laughter, nearly spilling his beer again. Then he glanced around, suddenly impatient. “And where the fuck is Hans?” he barked. “He’s supposed to be giving a speech in five minutes! I swear, my barber found at least ten grey hairs in my beard the other day — and I pay him handsomely to keep me looking like a prince. I’d bet my shoes they’re all that boy’s fault.”
Hanush was still muttering when Radzig leaned slightly toward Henry, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel like a private aside.
“Hans Capon,” he explained smoothly, “is Hanush’s nephew. His father used to own RCM. Hanush only runs now on his behalf. When the time comes, Hans is supposed to take over.”
Henry raised his brows. “So this whole gala…”
Radzig nodded. “It’s as much about grooming Hans for the spotlight as it is about celebrating the firm. Hanush plays the jovial uncle, but the boy is the heir apparent. Every speech, every photo, every handshake — it’s rehearsal for the day he inherits the stage.”
Hanush caught the eye of a security man hovering nearby and beckoned him over with a subtle tilt of his glass. “Find Hans,” he said in a low, clipped tone. “He’s due on stage.”
The guard nodded and slipped away into the crowd.
Henry frowned slightly.
“By chance...,” he said, his tone hesitant, “Hans isn’t tall, lean, blond, about my age? Yellow suit jacket, trousers so tight they look painted on?”
Hanush nearly jumped.
“Yes! That’s him!” he agreed, sloshing his beer as he jabbed a finger at Henry. “I tell him to dress sharp, and he turns up looking like a bloody canary in a straitjacket.” He drained half his glass in one gulp, muttering. “I swear, if he doesn’t get here in five minutes for his speech, I’ll wring his neck myself — and then I’ll have to find another heir and fast, because clearly he’s determined to kill me before I retire.”
Radzig’s smile was thin, polished. “Presence, if nothing else.“
“You have no idea.“
“How can he kill you if you wring his neck first?” Henry asked but neither of them listened; their eyes were fixed on the stage as the music faltered and the organisers announced Hans Capon would say a few words.
The crowd clapped politely, their conversations forcibly interrupted, and after a majestic drumroll, Hans Capon finally appeared, striding onto the stage.
The applause rose, polite but hesitant. It was clear something was off. He stumbled, gripped the lectern with both hands, knuckles whitening, as though it were the only thing keeping him upright. Several cameras across the crowd flashed.
“Ladies and gentlemen…,” Hans began, voice pitched oddly, wavering between cheer and strain. He blinked too slowly, swayed slightly, then forced a laugh that landed flat.
“Christ above,” Hanush leaned closer to Radzig, muttering under his breath, his jaw tight. “This is what I get for trusting him with measly five minutes.”
Radzig’s polished smile didn’t falter, though his eyes narrowed.
Henry watched in silence, dread settling deeper.
“RCM… is proud… to welcome you all,” Hans continued, voice trembling. His hand slipped from the lectern for a moment, and he staggered before catching himself. “Tonight… we build a brighter future… for… for...”
Henry instinctively stepped forward as Hans’s voice faltered. The silence across the whole hall felt tight and awkward.
“For… for… hospital...”
For a heartbeat he stood frozen, eyes wide, as if something invisible had struck him. He staggered, clutching at the air, before crumpling to the floor with a strangled cry. His legs twitched violently, his body jerking in spasms that silenced the hall.
Gasps erupted. The polite applause dissolved into chaos, chairs scraping, voices rising.
“Christ!” Hanush shot to his feet, face drained of color. He turned sharply to the security, voice low but urgent. “Get someone up there.”
But Henry was already moving, cutting through the stunned crowd and jumping up the stage. From the VIP section he reached Hans first, kneeling beside him under the glare of the stage lights.
“Hans! Hans, Mr.Capon, do you hear me?” Henry tapped Hans’s cheek with urgency. “Are you with me?”
Hans’s eyelids fluttered at the sound of his name. A broken groan escaped his lips, his gaze flickering unfocused toward Henry. His fingers twitched weakly against the floorboards, as if trying to respond.
“That’s it, stay with me,” Henry urged, leaning closer. “You’re still here, Hans. Keep your eyes open.”
But before he could do more, two security guards rushed past him, their black suits stark against the spotlight, and seized Hans under the arms, dragging his limp frame toward the wings. His head lolled, legs scraping across the boards.
“Wait—I’m a doctor!” Henry reached out, but another organiser in a headset stepped firmly in front of him. “Sir, please. Off the stage. We’ll handle it.”
“Oh, come on!”
Henry protested as he was ushered back toward the VIP section, the glare of the lights fading behind him. He caught one last glimpse of Hans being hauled into the shadows, the crowd’s murmurs swelling into a tide of confusion and alarm with Hanush himself stepping onto the stage to handle the situation.