Chapter 2: Porcelain Walls, Iron Skin
Chapter 2: Porcelain Walls, Iron Skin
Riverside School of Medicine wasn’t just a school — it was a pedestal for the country’s finest, richest, and most brilliant to flaunt their superiority. Nestled in the heart of Manhattan, the campus gleamed with polished glass walls and tech-laced lecture halls. Legacy plaques adorned the halls — each a silent testament to old money, power, and connections.
For Mallory, Riverside was a battlefield.
She didn’t belong, and they made sure she never forgot it.
Her scholarship covered tuition and books — but not the image. Not the tailored white coats, the quiet luxury of designer bags resting on mahogany lecture tables, or the weekend retreats “everyone” seemed to go on. Her thrifted coat was always just a little too worn, her shoes a little too scuffed. Her laptop wheezed during rounds, barely holding on, but she typed with urgency — faster than most, more driven than all.
And yet, she was second in the class.
Right below Mason Sterling.
Mason, the golden boy. Son of a senator, legacy student, perfect hair and perfect teeth. He never studied in public. He didn’t have to. Every time Mallory answered a question in class, Mason’s lips curled just slightly — not enough for the professor to notice, but enough for her to feel it like a knife. The charity case is speaking again.
He didn’t bully her outright. Mason was too polished for that. But his comments sliced deeper because they were dipped in silk.
“It must be… impressive, Mallory, juggling night shifts and school. You’re like a little hospital rat — always running somewhere.”
“I heard some students live off-campus. Is that safe?”
“You work in the ER? I thought you’d need rest to keep up. But hey — some of us are built differently.”
His friends snickered — soft enough to blend into the ambient buzz of entitlement. Mallory never flinched. Her eyes stayed sharp. Her jaw never wavered. She gave them nothing.
But when she got back to her dorm — a cramped one-room corner in a run-down building two subway stops from campus — her armor crumbled.
The room was dim, lit by the faint yellow of a flickering desk lamp. The mattress dipped in the middle, the floor tiles chipped, and the radiator groaned like it resented being alive. Her meal for the night was instant noodles — again.
And for a moment, just a moment, she let herself feel it. The weight. The exhaustion. The ache in her back from standing ten hours during her hospital shift, and then walking home because Uber was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
She peeled off her lab coat, folded it with care, and tucked it onto the single hook on her wall. Then she sat, pulled her knees to her chest, and let the tears slide down silently.
Not for the insults. Not even for Mason.
But because she had to be perfect to stay here. One grade. One slip. And it was all gone.
But come morning?
She’d be iron again.
-----
The results were out.
Pathophysiology: 98%.
Mallory Lane. Rank: 1st.
Her name hovered above Mason’s on the results board like a crown made of fire. The class buzzed with disbelief — some in awe, others in bitter silence. No one had ever dethroned Mason before.
She didn’t gloat. She never did.
Instead, she packed her notes in silence, the whispers crawling like ants across her skin — familiar, annoying, and easy to swat away.
But Mason?
He wasn’t the silent type.
He approached as the lecture hall cleared, the sharp click of leather shoes slicing through the air. Calm on the surface, but his fury simmered underneath like acid.
“Lane,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth. “Congratulations. That’s quite the… fluke.”
Mallory didn’t even look up. “Thanks. I’ll try to make it a pattern.”
His jaw twitched.
He stepped in — too close — his tone darkening.
“Let me guess. Crammed between night shifts? Or maybe one of your charity cases tutored you in exchange for gauze? You’re very… resourceful.”
She finally met his gaze. Calm. Unbothered.
“Must be hard,” she said lightly, “watching your trust fund fail a multiple-choice test.”
His laugh was dry, humorless. “Enjoy it while it lasts. People love a rags-to-riches story... until it gets pathetic. You’re entertaining, Lane. Be grateful.”
“Grateful?” she echoed, arching an eyebrow as she packed her bag.
“For being allowed in here. This place isn’t built for people like you. You’re a tourist. Soak it up. Take selfies.”
The words landed like hail against concrete — harsh, but useless against her resolve. She zipped her bag, turned to him with a polite smile.
“Well. I guess I’ll see you at graduation. Try not to trip over your ego on the way to the stage.”
And with that, she walked off.
He stood frozen, teeth grinding behind his smile.
---
Later that night — the storm breaks.
It was raining.
The kind of cold slanted New York rain that soaked through jackets and soaked deeper into bones. Her umbrella had snapped somewhere between the bus stop and the hospital doors. Her shoes squelched with every step.
Her shift had ended an hour ago, but she couldn’t go home.
Not yet.
Instead, she walked — no destination, just movement. Just the need to breathe.
She didn’t even realize where she was headed until the skyline opened in front of her. Tall buildings. Blurred lights. The river churning below. The city pulsed behind her like it was watching.
She stopped at the railing.
Metal. Cold. Wet.
She gripped it tight with both hands like it could hold her together.
The world was silent except for the wind and the water.
No exams.
No patients.
No Mason.
Just Mallory.
And everything she couldn’t say.
She didn’t cry. Not really. Just stood there, teeth clenched, jaw tight, chest rising like she was holding back a scream. The rain masked everything. No one would know.
Here, no one looked. No one judged. No one whispered behind their hands.
She was invisible again.
And it was the freest she’d felt in weeks.