Chapter 32: Feeling Good
The clinic administrator, a man with the weary eyes of a bureaucrat and a tie too tight for his thick neck, slid the folder back across the desk without opening it. “Miss Vance, we cannot accept untested, unlicensed herbal supplements into our formulary. The liability alone…”
Maya kept her hands folded in her lap, nails biting into her palms. “But the case studies are right there. Patient testimonials. Results.”
“Anecdotes are not data.” He stood, a clear dismissal. “Our patients rely on science.On FDA approvals. Not… garden remedies.”
The walk back to her reception desk felt like a mile through wet concrete. The folder, with its meticulously compiled notes on reduced inflammation markers and pain scale reductions, was heavy as a brick. She’d been to three clinics now. A private rheumatology office, a community health center, even a progressive holistic practice. The answers were always the same, wrapped in different shades of polite condescension: We appreciate your passion, but.
The rules are in place for a reason.
Perhaps you should consider a degree in pharmacology.
She sank into her chair, the cheerful click-clack of the keyboard around her suddenly abrasive. Her own little secret garden of healing felt suddenly very small, very naive. She could help a handful of people quietly, in the dark. But the scale of suffering in Gotham was a vast, grey ocean. She was offering a eyedropper.
The anger that simmered beneath her optimism began a slow, rolling boil. It wasn’t fair. The system was a rusted gate, locked tight, keeping real help out while doling out expensive, indifferent pills that treated nothing but the shareholders’ bottom line.Ivy was right. You couldn’t tend a garden in a hurricane. You had to change the weather.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled out her phone. Scrolling past pictures of her thriving devil’s ivy, she found Logan’s name. Their last conversation felt like a treaty signed in shifting sand. But he was inside the fortress now. He understood leverage.
He answered on the third ring. The background noise wasn’t the hiss of a diner grill or the drip of his sink. It was the low, ambient murmur of expensive space, the clink of glassware. “Maya. What’s up?”
“I need a favor.” No small talk. She was past that.
A pause. She could almost hear him shifting gears, the casual mask clicking into place. “Shoot.”
“I’m hitting walls. Brick ones. I can’t get the tinctures into any legitimate medical channels. I’ve got proof they work, but no one will look at it without… influence.”
Another pause, longer. She heard a muffled voice, Logan’s hand presumably over the receiver, a faint “just a sec.” When he came back, his tone was carefully neutral. “What kind of influence?”
“A name.Pressure. Someone to call a clinic director and make it clear that looking at my research is in their best interest.” The words tasted sour, but necessary. “I’m not asking for anything illegal. Just for someone to open a door.”
Logan let out a slow breath. “That’s… not really my world, Maya.”
“It is now,” she said, blunt. “You’re in the room where those calls get made. I’m not asking you to do it. I’m asking you to ask him.”
He was quiet for so long she thought the connection had dropped. “I can’t promise anything,” he finally said, each word measured. “It’s a big ask. And his priorities are… specific. I’ll mention it. That’s all I can do.”
It was less than she hoped. More than she expected.“Okay. Mention it.”
“How’s it going otherwise?” he asked, a clumsy pivot to normalcy.
“People are getting better. People are also developing a slight sensitivity to direct sunlight and their sweat smells like jasmine. But they’re not in pain anymore.” She couldn’t keep the defensive pride out of her voice.
A faint, humorless chuckle came down the line.“Trade-offs, right? Look, I gotta go. I’ll… I’ll let you know.”
The call ended. Maya stared at her phone, then at the wilting spider plant on the filing cabinet. She had just planted a seed in toxic soil. She could only hope something viable would grow.
The club was all dark polished stone and low, amber lighting, the air smelling of oud cologne and aged whiskey. Logan straightened the cuffs of his shirt—crisp, white, Italian cotton, a universe away from his old grease-stipped diner uniform. The ghost of a burn scar on his wrist peeked out, a faint silver line against the tan. He’d told Roman about Maya’s request over breakfast that morning, framing it as a minor curiosity, a distant friend’s pet project.
Roman had sliced a piece of blood orange with precise, surgical care. “A back-alley apothecary with social ambitions,” he’d mused. “An interesting vector. But unfocused. Tell her… not yet. Our current project requires all available leverage.”
The “current project” thrummed around Logan now. He moved through the crowd, a shark in tailored wool, shaking hands. He knew his role. He was the relatable face, the human interest story. Roman Sionis: Visionary Developer. Philanthropist. And now, Candidate for City Council, District 11.
“Logan, right?” A man with a grip like a vice and the watchful eyes of a union boss clapped him on the shoulder. “Heard you’re Sionis’s right hand. Sharp kid. You get where real power is. In the ground, in the bricks.”
“And in the people who lay them,” Logan answered, smiling, the flirty snark sanded down into polished charm. “Roman respects that. A city isn’t steel and glass. It’s the guys who wake up at four a.m. to pour the foundations.”
He’d learned this, studying the faces, the postures. He traded stories of his short, miserable stint in construction after high school—the bad coffee, the burnt hands—tailoring the anecdote to his audience. With the environmental lobbyists, he became quietly passionate about green space equity, a concept he’d absorbed from Maya over countless coffees. With the tech investors, he was all forward-thinking infrastructure and smart cities.
He found Roman holding court near a panoramic window overlooking the city’s glittering spine. A councilwoman, her smile a practiced veneer, was listening intently.
“—simply a matter of streamlining,” Roman was saying, his voice a calm, compelling current. “The city’s bureaucratic bloat is a cancer on progress. I’m proposing a surgical removal. A special oversight committee, with teeth.”
“And you’d chair this committee?” the councilwoman asked.
“I’d insist on it. For efficiency’s sake.” Roman’s gaze flicked to Logan, a silent summons.
Logan slid into the space beside him, a silent testament. The former line cook, now the visible proof of Roman’s eye for talent, for uplift.
Later, in the car, the privacy partition up, Roman unknotted his tie. “The union is ours. The councilwoman is… considering. Her nephew has a gambling habit. My people are engaging him.”
Logan watched the city slide by. “You made her an offer?”
“I presented a solution to a problem she didn’t yet know she had.” Roman turned his head, the streetlights carving his sharp features into a mask of gold and shadow. “Your friend. The gardener. Her request.”
Logan’s pulse gave a small, involuntary jump. “Yeah?”
“When this election is secured, the committee formed, the city’s health department will fall under its purview for ‘budgetary review.’” Roman spoke as if reading from a future memo. “At that point, pilot programs for alternative pain management in city clinics will be not only possible, but expedient. A political win. Tell her to be patient. To prepare her data.” He reached over, his fingers brushing a nonexistent piece of lint from Logan’s shoulder.“You see? Everything connects. You wanted to be part of the process. This is the process.”
The scale of it, the cold, intricate patience, was breathtaking. Maya’s little garden was being plotted onto Roman’s blueprints, whether she knew it or not. A wave of something like protectiveness washed over Logan, followed immediately by a crushing sense of inevitability. This was how things got done. This was how you changed the weather.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Maya, just a photo. It was of her windowsill, now home to a vicious-looking plant with thick, fleshy leaves and ominous red veins. The caption read: New project. Ivy says it’s called ‘Ming Thing.’ Doesn’t do much yet. Just watches.
Logan stared at the image, the bizarre plant like an omen in the dark glass of the car window. He saw his own reflection superimposed over it—the sharp jaw, the watchful eyes, the expensive shirt. He was a grafted limb now, thriving on a foreign trunk. He typed back, his thumbs moving automatically.Looks dangerous.
Her reply was almost immediate.
I’m learning dangerous is just another word for effective.
He put the phone away, the afterimage of the strange plant burning in his mind. Outside, Gotham stretched, a sickly, beautiful organism waiting for its new surgeons.
Outside, Gotham stretched, a sickly, beautiful organism waiting for its new surgeons. The car slid into the underground garage, its silence a stark contrast to the argument Logan was already rehearsing in his head. He waited until he was alone in the penthouse’s living room, the city a grid of distant, firefly lights below, before he called her.
Maya answered with a wary, “Hey.”
“I talked to him,” Logan said, dispensing with any greeting. He paced on the thick, soundless carpet. “About your thing.”
Her breath hitched, a tiny, hopeful sound. “And?”
“And there’s a path. But it’s not now.” He laid it out, Roman’s words becoming his own. “It’s after. When he’s on the council, when he’s got the oversight committee. Then he can push pilot programs through the health department. Make it a policy win.”
“After the election,” Maya repeated, her voice flattening.
“Yeah. So it’s conditional.” Logan stopped pacing, staring at his own reflection in the dark glass. He looked like a stranger holding a phone. “He needs to win. That’s the priority.”
A long silence filled the line, thick with the things she wasn’t saying. He could picture her in her cramped bedroom, surrounded by silent, watching plants. “Logan… you’re asking me to campaign for him?”
“I’m telling you how the door opens.” He heard the coolness in his own voice, the Roman-like practicality. “Talk him up. At the clinic, with your patients. The ones you help. Tell them he’s a guy who gets real solutions done. That he’s not like the other parasites. Encourage them to vote. District 11.”
“You know what I’ve heard about him, Logan. What everyone has heard.”
“You’ve also heard what I was before,” he shot back, the words sharper than he intended. “Broke. In pain. Failing. He fixed that. He can fix other things. Bigger things.” He softened his tone, a calculated shift. “You asked me for help. For influence. This is what it looks like. It’s a trade. You want him to move the world for you, you gotta help move a few votes for him.”
Another silence. This one felt colder. “A trade,” she echoed, the word lifeless.
“That’s how it works, Maya. Nothing’s free. Not his help. Not mine.” The confession hung in the digital space between them, ugly and true. “So? You in, or are you gonna keep playing in the dirt while people wait for relief that never comes?”
He heard her swallow. “I’ll… I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good.” He didn’t thank her. It wasn’t that kind of transaction. “I’ll be in touch.”
He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the sofa. It sank into the cushions without a sound. A hollow victory soured in his gut. He’d done it. He’d bridged the gap. He’d turned her idealism into a political asset. The logic was flawless. It still tasted like betrayal.
The key turned in the lock an hour later. Roman entered, the weight of the city seeming to slide from his shoulders as the door sealed behind him. He shrugged off his coat, his eyes finding Logan immediately, a silent question in the arch of a brow.
“It’s handled,” Logan said, not moving from the window. “She’ll talk to her people. It’s a start.”
Roman nodded, pouring two glasses of water. He handed one to Logan. Their fingers brushed. “A small root system can destabilize a great deal of concrete. Given time.”
Logan took a drink, the water achingly cold. “She’s hesitant. Moral qualms.”
“Morality is a seasonal crop.” Roman sipped his water, watching him over the rim. “It flourishes only under specific conditions. Security. Stability. She has neither. She will come to see the utility.”
“Yeah.” Logan put his glass down. The hollow feeling was still there, but looking at Roman—calm, certain, immutable—it began to fill with something else. A gravitational pull. He closed the distance between them. “The vote is inevitable. You know that, right?”
Roman’s gaze was assessing, tracing the lines of Logan’s face for doubt. “Polling suggests a margin of three percent.”
“Polling is bullshit.” Logan placed a hand on Roman’s chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat beneath the fine wool. “You’ve already won. The union guys look at you and see a winner who doesn’t lie to them. The suits look at you and see a cleaner, smarter version of themselves. The councilwoman looks at you and sees her nephew’s debts disappearing.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper against Roman’s lips. “It’s already over. You’ve just got to go through the motions.”
A flicker of something raw and hungry passed behind Roman’s eyes. He cupped the back of Logan’s neck, his grip firm, anchoring. “Your confidence is becoming my favorite asset.”
“It’s not confidence,” Logan breathed, and kissed him.
This was different from the docks. That had been adrenaline and visceral shock. This was deeper, a claiming and a surrender woven together. Logan poured every calculation, every manipulated conversation, every traded favor from the day into it. He was the promise made to Maya, the handshake with the union boss, the implied threat to the councilwoman. He was the instrument and the proof.
Roman responded with a low, approving sound, his other arm sliding around Logan’s waist to pull him flush. The kiss deepened, tasted of cold water and absolute certainty. When they broke apart, Roman’s breath was warm against his cheek. “You believe it,” he murmured, a note of genuine discovery in his voice.
“I do.” Logan meant it. In this room, with this man, the chaos of the city resolved into a simple, brutal equation Roman was destined to solve.
Roman’s hand slid from his neck down his arm, fingers lacing with his. He didn’t speak. He simply turned and led Logan from the cool, glass-walled living room toward the dark hallway beyond. Logan followed, the plush carpet silencing their steps. The last of the city’s light fell away, replaced by the intimate darkness of the private wing.
He let Roman lead him to the bed.
The morning came with the soft chime of a smartphone alarm, not the angry buzz of Logan’s old one. Roman was already gone, the space beside him cool. The regimen folder lay open on the kitchen island, today’s schedule detailed in crisp font. A breakfast smoothie, ingredients pre-portioned in the blender. A 10 AM meeting with pollsters. A noon lunch with a skeptical editor from the Gotham Gazette. Three separate evening fundraisers in different boroughs.
Logan drank the smoothie. It tasted of chlorophyll and obligation.
Maya’s support began in whispers. She mentioned Roman Sionis to Mrs. Gable while applying a salve that smelled of crushed pine and dark earth. “He’s not a typical politician,” she said, her voice low and confidential in the exam room’s quiet. “He understands systems. How to fix things that are broken.”
Mrs. Gable, her arthritic hands finally still and pain-free, nodded eagerly. “If he can do for the city what you’ve done for my joints, I’ll vote for him twice.”
At the front desk, she slipped a small, elegant campaign flyer—featuring Roman looking statesmanlike, not threatening—into the informational packet for a patient complaining about neglected city services. “I hear his urban renewal plan actually listens to community boards,” she offered, her smile feeling tight at the corners.
She watered her Ming Thing plant that evening. Its red veins seemed to pulse in the low light. “It’s for a greater good,” she told it, the justification sounding thin in her empty apartment. The plant offered no absolution, only its silent, carnivorous watchfulness.
Logan’s days became a marathon of manufactured authenticity. He shook a thousand hands, remembered a hundred names, and told a dozen variations of his own story. At the Gazette lunch, he charmed the editor by admitting Roman’s ruthlessness upfront. “He’s a bastard,” Logan said with a disarming grin, leaning in. “But he’s our bastard. The city’s been cleaned by gentlemen for decades, and look at it. Maybe it’s time for a bastard who knows how to use a pressure washer.”
The editor laughed, and the subsequent article carried a suspiciously neutral tone.
Logan would text Maya updates from limousines and bathroom stalls. Union local 440 locked down. Or: Just compared city zoning laws to a bacterial infection. They loved it.
She’d reply with a photo of a new bloom on her night-blooming cereus, or a simple: Mr. Henshaw voted today. He wore his sunglasses to the booth.
The exchanges were stitches holding a fragile fabric together. He was running on a fuel of espresso, Roman’s approving glances, and the sheer velocity of momentum. The old, sharp pain in his knee was a distant memory, replaced by a new, total-body ache of perpetual performance. He stopped by Maya’s one evening after a television spot, his makeup still faintly visible at his hairline.
“You look like hell,” she said, letting him in.
“I feel like a product that’s been focus-grouped to death.” He collapsed onto her sofa, displacing a throw pillow shaped like a succulent. The familiar smells of soil and simmering lentils were a balm. He closed his eyes for a second too long.
“When do you sleep?”
“Between the apology to the Greek Orthodox community leaders and the brunch with the anti-graffiti task force,” he mumbled into the cushion. “It’s fine. It’s almost over.”
She brought him tea. He drank it without opening his eyes, his hand less steady than it should be. She told him about a new batch of tincture, the logistics of scaling up production. Her words swam around him, concepts he knew were important but couldn’t grab onto. The warmth of the mug seeped into his hands, the only part of him that didn’t feel cold.
“Roman says the health committee review will be first on the docket,” Logan said, his voice slurry with fatigue. “Sixty days post-election. You’ll have your pilot program. He promises.”
“He promises,” Maya repeated, watching the deep, bruised shadows under his eyes. A fissure of doubt crackled through her. This was the cost. The man on her couch, hollowed out and running on fumes, was the conduit for her dream. She saw the ghost of the snarky line cook in the sharp line of his jaw, but he was fading, replaced by this polished, exhausted instrument.
“Logan?”
A soft snore was his only reply. He’d passed out mid-sentence, the empty mug tilting precariously in his slack hand. Maya carefully pried it free. He didn’t stir. His breathing was shallow, his skin pale. A sudden, sharp fear pierced her chest. This wasn’t normal sleep. This was a system shutdown.
She stood there, paralyzed, for a full minute. She could let him sleep it off. Make up the couch. But the waxy pallor of his skin was wrong. The profound depth of his unconsciousness was frightening. Her mind raced through options—call an ambulance, try to wake him—but each path splintered into terrifying consequences. An ambulance meant records, questions, a scandal that could sink the campaign and her only chance. Waking him… she wasn’t sure she could.
Her eyes fell on his phone, peeking from his jacket pocket. The solution, and the devil of it, sat right there. Roman. Roman, who owned the doctors, the clinics, the silence. Roman, who had fixed him before.
Her hands were cold as she slid the phone out. Logan’s fingerprint unlocked it. She stared at the screen, a galaxy of contacts and apps. She found the entry simply labeled RS. She hesitated, her thumb hovering. This was crossing a line, inviting that presence into her sanctuary. She looked back at Logan, utterly still on her couch, a marionette with its strings cut.
She pressed the button.
It rang twice. “Logan.” Roman’s voice was immediate, a clip of expectant efficiency.
“It’s Maya.” Her own voice sounded small, alien to her.
A beat of profound, icy silence. “Where is he?”
“My apartment. He passed out. He won’t wake up. Not really.” The words tumbled out. “I didn’t know who else to—”
“Address. Now.” It wasn’t a question.
She gave it, her mouth dry. The line went dead without another word.
Ten minutes later, a firm, quiet knock sounded at her door. She opened it to find Roman, alone, dressed in a dark sweater and trousers that looked both casual and ruthlessly expensive. He didn’t greet her. His eyes went past her, scanning the room, cataloging its chaotic warmth, before landing on Logan’s form on the sofa. He moved inside, a wave of cold air and implicit authority following him.
He knelt beside Logan, his movements clinical. Two fingers pressed to Logan’s throat, checking his pulse. He peeled back an eyelid, then the other, observing pupil response. He placed a palm on Logan’s forehead.
“Dehydration. Exhaustion. Hypoglycemia,” Roman stated, his voice devoid of judgment or alarm. He looked up at Maya, his gaze analytical. “You made the correct call.”
He then slid one arm under Logan’s shoulders, the other under his knees, and lifted him from the couch with unsettling ease. Logan’s head lolled against Roman’s chest, a faint, incoherent murmur escaping his lips.
“Wait,” Maya said, the word escaping before she could think.
Roman paused at her threshold, a dark silhouette holding a broken prize. He turned his head just slightly, waiting.
“Is he going to be okay?”
Roman’s profile was carved from shadow. “He will be perfect,” he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt or alternative. “He just pushed too far, for me. That ends now.”
He turned and carried Logan down the stairs, leaving Maya standing in her open doorway, surrounded by the silent, watching leaves of her plants, the air in her apartment suddenly chilled and empty.