“What Rank Are You?” the Navy SEAL Mocked the Nurse — Then an Admiral Ordered Everyone to Salute Her

PART 2 — FULL STORY

The day I walked into Harbor Ridge Medical Center, no one looked twice.

I was thirty-one years old. I wore quiet shoes, no makeup, and a plain badge clipped to my scrubs. I carried a single bag and introduced myself to the front desk with a handshake most people forgot before I ever reached the elevator. By noon, I had been assigned to the general nursing pool. By two o’clock, I had already been publicly humiliated in front of twelve staff members by the man who ran the hospital like a personal empire.

His name was Dr. Victor Kaine.

He had pointed at me across the trauma bay and told me to get out of his OR, sneering that he didn’t take orders from “bedpan changers.” I had said nothing. I had picked up my chart, turned, and walked away.

And no one in that building had any idea what they had just done.

The drive into Stoneport had taken me past the harbor at dawn. The water was flat and gray, oil tankers moving slow in the distance like things that had forgotten how to hurry. I had passed through a dozen cities in the last three years. I didn’t unpack much anymore. A duffel bag, a laptop, and two sets of civilian clothes I’d bought at a department store in Raleigh because the tags still had the size stickers on them. I hadn’t had time to peel them off.

I found the address for my rental—a studio above a dry cleaner on Merchant Street—left my bag on the floor without opening it, and was back in the car before seven.

Harbor Ridge Medical Center sat on the north end of Stoneport’s Medical District. It was a twelve-story building that had been renovated twice in the last decade. Each renovation was announced with a press release and a photo of Victor Kaine cutting a ribbon. The building looked modern from the outside. Glass panels, a curved entrance, automatic doors that slid open with a hiss.

The lobby smelled of fresh flowers and strong coffee. It was staffed by a receptionist named Darlene, who smiled at everyone and wrote down nothing.

I signed my employment paperwork in a side office, shook hands with the HR coordinator—a tired man named Phillips who had the handshake of someone who had long stopped expecting the day to improve—and was handed my badge, my locker assignment, and a laminated map of the facility.

“Dr. Kaine runs a tight ship,” Phillips said.

He slid a policy binder across the desk without making eye contact.

“He likes things done his way. You’ll figure it out.”

“I’m sure,” I said.

I spent the first hour doing what new nurses always do. I learned the layout. I identified the supply closets. I watched who talked to whom and who avoided whom.

I cataloged the exits, both the visible ones and the ones that weren’t labeled. I noted the camera positions in the corridors. Three blind spots on the second floor. One near the stairwell on the fourth. A wide-angle unit near the nurses’ station that swept left but had a dead zone along the east wall.

I also watched the staff.

There was Miriam, a charge nurse in her late forties who moved with the quiet authority of someone who had been running things long before the current administration. She would keep running them long after.

There was James Tully, a trauma resident who looked about twenty-six and already had the slightly hollow look of a person who had learned that medicine—and what he’d been told medicine would be—were two very different things.

And then, just before nine, there was Dr. Victor Kaine.

He came off the elevator on the third floor with two other physicians trailing him. Both of them were half a step behind, which was clearly where he expected them to stay. Kaine was tall, broad-shouldered, somewhere in his mid-fifties, with silver hair that was styled in a way that took effort but was supposed to look effortless.

He wore his white coat the way some men wear a uniform. Like the coat itself conferred absolute authority. His shoes were expensive. His watch was more expensive. He spoke to the physicians beside him without looking at them, which I noted was either a power habit or a sign that he didn’t consider their reactions worth tracking.

I was standing near the nurses’ station reviewing a patient chart when he passed. He didn’t acknowledge me. I didn’t expect him to.

The first real encounter came at 11:47 a.m.

A post-surgical patient in room 312—a sixty-two-year-old man named Warren, admitted two days prior for a bowel resection—had spiked a fever. His blood pressure had started drifting in a direction that required someone to make a call. The attending physician was unavailable.

I assessed the vitals, checked the chart, and made an adjustment to the fluid protocol that was conservative, defensible, and correct. I flagged it for physician review and documented everything with timestamps.

Victor Kaine walked into the room four minutes later.

He looked at the chart. He looked at Warren. He looked at the fluid adjustment note. Then he turned to look at me with the specific expression of a man who has decided something before he has even asked a question.

“Who authorized this?” Kaine asked.

“I flagged it for physician review,” I said. “The patient was showing early indicators of—”

“I didn’t ask for your clinical assessment. I asked who authorized it.”

“It’s within nursing scope under your facility’s standing orders. I documented the reasoning.”

Kaine pulled the chart from my hands. Not snatched. That word would imply emotion. He simply removed it from my grip the way you’d remove something from a counter that didn’t belong there.

He looked at it for a long moment, then handed it to the physician beside him.

“This is not what I pay nurses to do,” he said.

He didn’t say it to me. He said it to the room, to the other physician, to the wall, to the general concept of nursing staff overstepping.

“We have protocols. We have a chain of command. The next time someone in a scrub top decides to play doctor in my hospital, I want to know about it immediately.”

He walked out.

I wrote two more lines in the patient chart, set it on the bedside table, and checked Warren’s temperature again. My jaw was tight, but my hands were completely steady.

“He’s always like that,” Warren said from the bed. He’d been awake for the whole thing.

“Your blood pressure is stabilizing,” I said. “That’s what matters.”

Warren looked at me for a moment. “You’re not going to say anything about him?”

“I’m going to get you some water,” I said.

> I’ve held people’s hands while they died. I know what real pressure looks like. And this wasn’t it.

The second encounter happened two days later. It was harder to absorb, because it was designed to be.

It came during morning rounds in the trauma bay with eleven people present. Two attendings, three residents, four nurses, a medical student, and a physical therapist who had wandered in through the wrong door.

I had been in the bay since six-thirty. I’d caught an early irregularity in a post-trauma patient’s respiratory pattern, documented it, and brought it to the attending’s attention before rounds even started. By the time Kaine arrived, the team had already begun adjusting the patient’s care plan. The early data was trending toward improvement.

Kaine reviewed the morning summary. He asked three questions of the residents. He made two comments about charting format.

Then he reached my nursing note. He held it up.

“Who wrote this?”

I raised my hand. There was no way to make that gesture not feel like being in elementary school.

“There are three grammatical errors in your clinical reasoning section,” Kaine said.

His voice bounced off the tile walls.

“Three. In a medical document.”

“I’ll correct them,” I said.

“Beyond that, you’ve used terminology here…” He tapped the page aggressively. “…that is not part of a nursing assessment. This reads like someone who watched a medical drama and decided they understood critical care.”

Someone in the room made a sound. Not a laugh. Closer to a breath held wrong.

“The assessment is clinically accurate,” I said. My voice stayed flat.

“I’m not asking you to defend it. I’m telling you it’s embarrassing.”

Kaine set the paper down. He looked around the room with the ease of a man who has never once wondered if he was wrong.

“Stay in your lane, nurse. That’s not a suggestion.”

He moved on to the next chart.

I didn’t move. I didn’t look at the floor. I didn’t look at Kaine. I looked at the patient.

I had trained myself over years, and in circumstances significantly worse than this room, to never let my face show what my mind was doing. What my mind was doing was recording. Every word. The eleven people present. The exact time—7:42 a.m. The way James Tully, the resident, had looked at his own shoes.

After rounds, Miriam caught up to me in the corridor.

“Don’t take it personally,” Miriam said quietly. She didn’t stop walking.

“I don’t,” I said.

Miriam looked at me sideways. Something in my tone had caught her attention. Not the words, but the absence of what usually came with them. Most new staff either got shaky after a Kaine dressing-down, or they got hot. I just looked like someone doing arithmetic.

“He’s done that to every new nurse on this floor,” Miriam said. “Some of them transfer out inside of a month.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Nine years.”

“And you stayed.”

“The patients didn’t do anything wrong,” Miriam said simply.

They reached the supply room door. Miriam held it open, and that was the end of that conversation. But I turned it over in my mind for the rest of the shift. The patients didn’t do anything wrong. That was loyalty structured around the right thing.

That was worth noting.

By the end of my first week, I had mapped more than the hallways. I knew which physicians signed charts without reading them. I knew which supply orders were being processed with a delay that shouldn’t exist.

I knew that the hospital’s emergency trauma budget—publicly announced at a board meeting eight months ago as fully funded—had equipment that didn’t match the inventory sheets. I’d accessed those sheets through the shared drive using login credentials that were technically mine, and technically within system access.

I knew that Dr. Victor Kaine had a parking space with his name on it directly next to the building entrance. I knew that no one on staff, not one person in eleven days, had pushed back on him directly and survived it professionally.

I filed my first encrypted report at 11:15 on a Wednesday night.

I sent it from a laptop that was not connected to the hospital’s network and never would be. The report went to a routing address in Virginia that was not affiliated with any organization that existed on paper. I closed the laptop, made tea I didn’t drink, and went to sleep.

The situation with the operating room happened on a Friday.

A patient had come in through emergency. A forty-four-year-old woman named Patricia Voss, a school teacher from the south side of Stoneport who had collapsed at work. The initial workup suggested a ruptured ectopic pregnancy.

I was the first nurse on the scene. I did the intake, ran the assessment, and noticed something the resident had missed. Patricia’s blood pressure was dropping in a specific pattern. The bleed was faster than the imaging had captured.

I flagged it to the resident twice. When he didn’t act, I escalated directly to the attending. The attending ordered a secondary ultrasound, which confirmed it. Patricia went into the OR thirty minutes faster than originally scheduled.

Victor Kaine arrived in pre-op just as the team was moving. He looked at the updated orders. He followed the paper trail back to my escalation.

“Who authorized the direct escalation?” he asked.

The resident pointed at me. Kaine turned.

His voice had the particular temperature of a man who was not shouting because he had decided that not shouting would be more terrifying.

“In my hospital,” he said, “nurses do not escalate over the head of the attending resident. They do not make unilateral decisions about the speed of a surgical timeline. They leave clinical judgment to the people who went to medical school.”

“The patient was losing blood faster than the initial imaging showed,” I said. “The escalation was appropriate.”

“That determination is not yours to make.”

He stepped closer. I didn’t move back. I let him hover over me, smelling of expensive cologne and recycled air.

“You want to be a doctor? Apply to medical school. Until then, stay in the pre-op and do what you’re told. If I find you near my OR again without explicit authorization, you will be removed from this floor permanently. Do you understand me?”

I held his gaze for exactly two seconds. Long enough to make the point. Short enough not to escalate.

“Yes,” I said.

> I didn’t owe him an explanation. The work I was doing in the dark was going to speak for itself.

The formal warning came on a Tuesday morning. It was printed on hospital letterhead and placed in my personnel file. It cited failure to follow chain-of-command protocol and conduct inconsistent with nursing scope of practice. It was signed by Victor Kaine.

I read it once, signed the acknowledgment form, and put my copy in my locker.

That evening, my encrypted phone buzzed. Three words.

*Timeline confirmed. Continue.*

The financial irregularities I’d flagged in my first report had generated follow-up requests. The emergency response equipment contracts had been awarded to a vendor with an address in Delaware. That vendor shared a registered agent with a shell company connected to a Harbor Ridge board member.

It was the kind of thing that didn’t announce itself. It accumulated quietly, the way water got into a foundation. Not all at once. Just steadily, until the structure started to fail.

I had six more weeks before I needed to present a complete file. Six weeks was enough.

Then the crash happened.

It was a Thursday on Route 9. A charter bus carrying forty-one passengers collided with a fuel delivery truck that had clipped the median barrier. I was forty minutes into my shift when the first ambulance arrived. Then the second. Then three more in rapid succession.

The ER went from its normal controlled chaos to something significantly past that within eight minutes. Nineteen confirmed injuries. Seven critical.

Dr. Harold Finch was the attending on duty. He was a solid physician, but his hands had started shaking slightly by the time the third ambulance pulled in. It wasn’t incompetence. It was math. The emergency department had been running at reduced trauma staffing for eleven days—a budget decision processed through Kaine’s office that left them with two fewer trauma nurses than the protocol minimums.

I went to find Finch. He was working on a man in his seventies with a probable tension pneumothorax.

“Hart, I need you on—”

“You need more than that,” I said. “I need your authorization to run secondary triage in the corridor.”

“You’re on a performance plan.”

“Yes. Do I have authorization?”

He looked at me. The patient’s pressure was dropping, and there were eleven more people coming through the door.

“Do it,” Finch said.

I went to the corridor.

What happened in the next forty minutes was not clean, smooth, or heroic in any cinematic sense. It was loud and physically demanding. It involved me performing a decompression procedure on a fifty-three-year-old woman named Carla. She had a tension pneumothorax that wasn’t going to wait for an attending.

I used a technique that was not in the Harbor Ridge nursing scope of practice manual. It was in a field manual that I had memorized seven years ago, in a context that had nothing to do with this corridor.

I did it in under ninety seconds. I’d done it faster under worse conditions.

Carla’s oxygen saturation began climbing.

Garrett, the charge nurse, had been watching from six feet away. “What was that?”

“Needle decompression,” I said. I was already moving to the next patient.

By the time Victor Kaine arrived, thirty-two minutes after the first ambulance, the corridor was no longer chaos. It had structure. The red tags were managed. The yellows were stabilized.

Kaine stood at the corridor entrance. His tie was loose. He looked at the organized flow of the thing, and he didn’t understand what he was seeing, but he felt the wrongness of it.

“Who authorized this?” Kaine said loudly.

Nobody answered immediately. I didn’t look up. I was in the middle of a status update.

“Who is running this triage?”

Dr. Finch looked up from a chart. “I did. And Hart is executing it.”

“She is on a performance improvement plan.”

“There are nineteen patients in this corridor and I have two trauma nurses,” Finch said flatly. “Do you want to have this conversation right now?”

Kaine looked at the monitors. He looked at the patients. He looked at me, still checking a pulse.

“This isn’t over,” Kaine said.

He turned and walked away.

The camera above the secondary trauma bay had been recording since the first ambulance arrived. It had captured clear, timestamped footage of me performing a field decompression procedure with the exactness of someone who had done it in combat. My hands had not shaken. My movements had a precision that didn’t come from nursing school.

That footage was fed into the hospital’s security archive. It was also fed into an automated cross-match in the DoD biometric database.

At 9:17 that evening, my encrypted phone received a message.

*Footage flagged by automated system. Identity cross-match confirmed. Authorization received to accelerate. Report to holding contact at 0600 tomorrow. Protocol Glaston is active.*

I read it twice.

Protocol Glaston. I hadn’t heard that phrase in fourteen months. It meant the investigative phase was closing. It meant the careful, quiet work of the past weeks was about to give way to something louder. Something that moved fast and didn’t apologize.

It meant they were coming.

> I sat on the floor of my studio apartment and let myself feel the weight of knowing that the next seventy-two hours were going to change everything.

The phone call with my holding contact, a man named Marsh, lasted four minutes the next morning.

“General Voss has been briefed,” Marsh said. “He is coming personally. ETA is 1000 hours.”

General Voss. I let that land for a moment. Two stars.

“Can you hold for three hours?” Marsh asked.

“Yes.”

“Then hold. Don’t break cover early. We need Kaine inside the building when the convoy arrives.”

I went up to the hospital floor at seven in the morning. Kaine was already there. His car had been in the executive parking structure. He usually arrived at eight-thirty. The fact that he was here before seven meant he hadn’t slept either. His instincts were tingling.

At 8:14 a.m., Kaine appeared on the floor. He didn’t come to the nurses’ station. He went to the charge desk, read the overnight reports, and then walked over to me.

“Yesterday’s corridor triage,” he said. “Walk me through the decompression procedure.”

I kept my eyes on the chart in my hands. “The procedure is documented in the incident report. Dr. Finch’s authorization is on record.”

“I’m asking you to walk me through it.”

I looked up. “What specifically do you want to know?”

“The technique. The decision point where you learned it.”

There it was. He’d seen the footage, or spoken to someone who had. He was trying to map the thing that didn’t fit.

“Continuing education,” I said smoothly. “I’ve documented my training certifications.”

“Which certifications, specifically?”

“They’re in my personnel file. I’m happy to provide copies.”

He looked at me with the specific expression of a man who knows he’s being managed and hates it. “Get them to my office by ten o’clock,” he said.

“Of course,” I said.

He walked away. I calculated my window. I had to keep his attention on my paperwork so he wouldn’t pull any financial threads or try to leave the building before the convoy arrived. Bureaucracy was a gravitational force. I filed a formal response to my performance plan just to tie up his administrative team for the next hour.

At 9:47 a.m., my phone buzzed once. A single character.

*V.*

Vehicles. They were in the city.

I completed my patient assessment, documented it, and returned the chart to the rack. I told Miriam I was stepping out to the supply corridor. She looked at me, saying nothing, but I knew she could feel the air pressure dropping in the room.

I stood by the window overlooking the main entrance.

At 10:04 a.m., the first dark vehicle came around the corner of Harborview Drive. It was followed by a second, then a third. They moved in a configuration that wasn’t aggressive, but wasn’t casual either. Evenly spaced. Consistent speed. Behind them came a fourth vehicle with official plates.

They pulled into the hospital’s main entrance loop and stopped. The doors opened.

I went down to the lobby.

Military police came through the sliding doors first. Two of them in uniform, moving to positions on either side of the entrance without being told to. Then two individuals in civilian dress—federal agents cataloging the room as they entered.

Then came a man in his fifties in full dress uniform. Two stars on each shoulder. He moved with the deliberate pace of someone who was not in a hurry, because being in a hurry implied uncertainty.

General Voss.

The lobby froze. The conversations tapered off. Darlene, the receptionist, half-stood and then didn’t know what to do with her hands.

General Voss scanned the lobby once. His eyes found me.

He walked directly to where I stood. As he reached me, he stopped. He brought his right hand up in a salute that was formal, precise, and completely unambiguous.

“Rear Commander Hart,” he said. His voice carried in the silent lobby without being raised. “Your cover is no longer required.”

The lobby went absolutely silent. The air vanished from the room.

I returned the salute. My arm moved with the same precision, the muscle memory completely intact despite weeks of wearing nursing scrubs and taking orders from arrogant doctors. I held it for exactly the right beat, and then lowered it.

“General,” I said.

I could feel the people around me trying to process what their eyes had just seen, coming up short because the image wouldn’t resolve. The woman in scrubs. The military salute. The two stars. The words *Rear Commander*.

Then, Victor Kaine came around the corner from the administrative corridor.

Someone had called him the moment the vehicles arrived. He came around the corner with his ID badge visible and his hospital director authority fully deployed, ready to manage whatever this was.

He stopped when he saw the military police. He stopped when he saw the General.

He stopped most completely when he saw me standing in the center of it. Not as a floor nurse on a performance improvement plan, but as something else entirely. Something that had been watching him the entire time.

“What is—” Kaine’s boardroom voice faltered. He tried again. “What is the meaning of this? This is a private medical facility. I’m Director Kaine.”

General Voss turned to look at him. He didn’t speak. He didn’t gesture. He just shifted his attention from me to Kaine, and the sheer, calm completeness of it stopped Kaine mid-sentence.

“You’re Dr. Victor Kaine,” the General said. “Director of Harbor Ridge Medical Center.”

“Yes,” Kaine said, recalibrating. “And you are here on federal authority?”

The General nodded to the federal agent on his left, who opened a briefcase and removed a document folder. “Operating under a joint investigative mandate from the Department of Defense Inspector General and the Office of Inspector General.”

Kaine’s face did something complicated. “I don’t understand what this has to do with Commander Hart.”

Voss turned back to me. “Will you brief the Director on the scope of the investigation?”

I looked at Kaine. I held his gaze in a way I had deliberately avoided doing for six weeks.

“The investigation began fourteen months ago,” I said, my voice completely steady. “Following a confidential referral flagging irregular mortality outcomes at this facility. The scope includes emergency equipment procurement fraud, witness intimidation, and the illegal diversion of federal emergency response funding.”

Kaine said nothing. His mouth hung slightly open.

“You were the primary subject,” I said. “You have been the primary subject since the investigation was authorized.”

The collective exhale of the lobby sounded like a sudden wind.

“This is entrapment!” Kaine pointed a shaking finger at me. “You came into my hospital under false pretenses! You—”

“I was hired through standard nursing placement channels,” I said. “My placement was consistent with cover protocols. Everything I experienced in this hospital was documented and reported through authorized channels. Every insult. Every formal action. Every patient case.”

“You set me up!” he hissed.

I didn’t feel triumphant. I just felt tired.

“No,” I said. “You exposed yourself. All I did was watch.”

The two federal agents moved to positions flanking Kaine. They didn’t touch him. They were just present in a way that told him clearly what the geometry of his situation now was.

Kaine looked at the briefcase. He looked at the lobby full of people who had watched him run this institution through fear for a decade. He looked at me last.

“How long?” he asked. His voice dropped to a whisper. “How long were you watching?”

“Dr. Kaine,” one of the agents said smoothly, “we’re going to need you to come with us to the fourth floor.”

Kaine straightened his jacket. It was a reflexive reaching for dignity in a moment when dignity was no longer the applicable currency. He walked toward the elevator, flanked by federal agents.

The lobby stayed still for another second, and then the movement came back.

Miriam was standing near the corridor entrance. She was holding a clipboard against her chest, perfectly still. When I met her eyes, her expression wasn’t surprise. It was something more complicated. It held eleven years of notes written, filed, lost, and kept.

I walked over to her.

“The records you have,” I said quietly. “We’re going to need them today. A federal evidence coordinator will reach out to you directly.”

Miriam nodded. Her jaw was tight. “The families,” she whispered. “Will they…”

“They’ll be contacted. It won’t be fast, but it will happen.”

“Nine years,” Miriam said to herself.

I put a hand briefly on her arm, then walked toward the elevator. The work that came next was going to be meticulous and slow. Real accountability wasn’t a single dramatic moment; it was an accumulation of tedious, precise documentation.

I stepped onto the fourth floor and immediately encountered the federal coordinator. She had short-cropped hair and a rolling case.

“Commander Hart,” she said sharply. “We have a problem. Someone attempted remote access to the financial server forty minutes ago to initiate a deletion protocol.”

“Garrett Aldis,” I said instantly. Kaine’s deputy. “He has system-level access to the financial servers.”

“He’s not in the building. He badged out eighteen minutes ago.”

My mind raced. Aldis was running. He wasn’t running to protect Kaine; he was running to protect whoever was above Kaine in the Cayman Island shell structure. A board member named Harlon Puit.

Over the next three hours, our federal team traced Aldis’s banking activity to an ATM in Harmon’s Ferry. He was hiding at his mother’s vacant house. When the arrest team breached the property, they found Aldis with printouts of the payment records. He flipped immediately, offering full cooperation for reduced exposure.

Harlon Puit’s arrest warrant was issued at 12:34 p.m.

Victor Kaine sat in the fourth-floor conference room with his expensive lawyer for hours, realizing piece by piece that his empire had evaporated. He had nowhere to go.

I finished my shift.

It felt surreal, checking charts and updating documentation while a federal investigation dismantled the hospital’s leadership one floor above my head. But patients still needed their medications logged. The real work didn’t pause for institutional collapse.

At 6:15 p.m., James Tully found me in the locker room. He leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved deep into his white coat pockets.

“I saw him salute you in the lobby,” James said softly.

I zipped my bag. I didn’t speak.

“You knew all of it. The whole time. He put a performance improvement plan on you, and you just sat there.”

“I knew what I was looking for,” I said.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“New administration, probably. The care staff stays. The patients stay.” I slung my bag over my shoulder. “It was always the people at the top that were the problem. The rest of it was real.”

Six months later, Victor Kaine was convicted on all counts.

He was sentenced to fourteen years in a federal correctional facility and stripped of his medical license permanently. Harlon Puit received eleven years. The hospital was restructured. Miriam was named the hospital’s first patient safety liaison—a position created specifically for her.

The military ceremony honoring my deployment was held on a Friday in March at a naval installation outside Norfolk.

General Voss read the commendation. He pinned the medal to my dress uniform. I looked out at the room of two hundred people. Miriam was in the third row, sitting straight-backed and precise.

Afterward, a young nurse in green scrubs approached me. She looked overwhelmed.

“How did you stay silent for so long when he was doing all of that to you?” she asked. “How did you not crack?”

I thought about how to answer her honestly.

“I won’t pretend it didn’t cost anything,” I said. “It did. Every morning in that building cost something. But I knew something he didn’t know. He thought he was telling me who I was. He was wrong. And knowing he was wrong—not proving it yet, just knowing it—was enough.”

The young nurse nodded, trying to memorize the words.

“Keep your records,” I told her. “Know your scope. And don’t let anyone’s assessment of you become the ceiling on what you do.”

I stepped out of the reception hall and looked out toward the Norfolk harbor. The water was gray and flat, the boats moving slowly, doing their honest, necessary work. The truth was heavy, and justice rarely felt like pure relief. But it was real. And it was done.

THE END.

* Disclaimer: This story is fictional and serves for entertainment purpose only. It does not represent any real person nor organization, nor encourage inappropriate behaviors.