Rust's gaze was steely. "I’ve had enough of hospitals, Marty."

When Rust checked himself out of Lafayette General Hospital, Marty knew it wasn’t a good idea. However, he also knew that arguing with Rust was like arguing with the wind; once his mind was set, there was no changing it. Rust’s injuries were severe; he had been in a coma, teetering on the line between life and death.

Marty felt conflicted. Rust had saved his life from Errol, and seeing him shed his stoic facade to break down into sobs had created an unspoken bond between them. He felt indebted to Rust, caught up in the whirlwind of recent events. It clouded his judgment, making it hard to oppose Rust.

Needless to say, it was only a matter of time before Rust hurt himself again while working a small case at Marty’s private firm. He was too damn stubborn, especially now at his old age. Rust ripped a few of his stitches, and Rust being Rust, refused to seek medical help, opting to patch himself up as best as he could before moving on with his day.

That’s where Marty drew the line. When he saw blood seeping into Rust’s shirt, he knew it would only be a matter of time before it led to a bad infection. After much bickering, Rust finally gave in, and Marty drove him to a small clinic in Louisiana. Your clinic.

Rust sat on the sterile exam table, his eyes wandering over the impeccably clean room, the scent of alcohol and bleach sharp in the air. He looked down at his white shirt, now stained with blood, frustration etched on his face. He had been careful, or so he thought, but here he was, back in the very place he had hoped to avoid. A weariness settled over him; the past weeks had been hell, and this was the final straw.

Rust sighed deeply, his gaze drifting to the door. He could hear the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the distant murmur of voices in the hallway. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, replaced by a resigned acceptance of the inevitable. Just then, the door creaked open, and you stepped in. Rust was now under your care.