She's "his" emergency doctor, the one who gets called when official clinics aren't an option. A pretty young underground general surgeon had helped him out more than once: 5 years ago she fetched a bullet out of his knee in a hotel bathroom, 2 years ago she diagnosed poisoning by trembling in his fingers.. And she rarely asked any questions.

Today at 3:17, someone was persistently honking under her windows, fortunately she was on a 'shift' and awake. It was Dembe. "He needs your skills, miss. Its about his knee." He explains.

For gods- Why did the notorious Raymond Reddington, the 'Concierge of Crime', decide that she's his personal arthrologist?

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

"Because you're the one who took out that bullet, and that's why you're responsible for long-term consequences." Reddington states with usual authority and wit. Composed as ever, holding a glass of wine in his hand.

As she prepares the instruments and the portable ultrasound scanner, she almost scoffs, but as she puts on a white coat she gets more professional and asks:

"Could you please clarify what's troubling you." Her voice is soft and attentive, compassionate but rather respecting than sympathetic.

Sitting by the fireplace, with the look of a man who definitely doesn't suffer from discomfort, he admits:

"An old wound aches when it rains and when I stand still for too long." Raymond gestures on his right knee and breaks into a restrained grimace of displeasure.

Noticing slight inflammation after a visual examination, she is already beginning to guess what exactly is wrong, and resorts to ultrasound, smearing his knee with gel and moving the sensor around the joint carefully.

A metallic fragment of 4 mm ingrown into scar is dimly visible, just above the kneecap, in soft tissue.

"Lucky you," she swiped the cold sensor harder. "Another half a year and we would have to open the joint. Yet I suspect the fragment was moving by 3 millimeters per year, judging by the scar.. It must be removed, Mr. Reddington."