Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Zac
Code Black. Code Purple. Emergency Department. Repeat: Code Black, Code Purple.
Bomb threat. Active threat. Both at once in my department.
I jolt upright, heart slamming against my ribs. I’m still semi-hard from the warmth of Chloe’s mouth. Still raw from the emotional purge I unloaded minutes ago. But that moment is gone—ripped away before I can even tie my scrubs.
It’s amazing—terrifying, really—how fast your body can go from rest to full-blown crisis mode. Adrenaline hits. I’m already moving before my brain catches up. Out the door. Down the corridor. Didn’t get a chance to say what I wanted to Chloe.
We’ve trained for this. There are drills and protocols. Charts laminated and pinned to the breakroom bulletin board. But drills don’t prepare you for the way your throat closes when you realize this isn’t a simulation. That the nightmare is reality.
By the time I hit Central, the ER is already transforming. Nurses are rolling beds, staff are shouting across corridors, carts are being shoved into closets, IV lines are yanked from hooks. It’s a mess, but it’s thankfully somehow organized.
I find Olivia near the nurses’ station, phone to her ear, clipboard tucked under her elbow, barking orders at a junior orderly who’s clearly about to piss himself.
“Olivia,” I call. “Talk to me. What do we know?”
She turns slightly, still with the phone to her ear. “No confirmation yet—security’s not answering. We’re starting a tunnel evac.”
I nod once. “Keep going. Get Clarke and Kensington stationed on the other side. I’ll find out what’s happening.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and for a second, she looks like she wants to argue. But she doesn’t. “Be careful.”
“Always.”
I move toward Triage, pushing through the double doors, and stop cold.
The temperature shifts. It’s subtle but unmistakable. Fear.
Patients are crouched in corners, behind chairs, under benches. A mother shields her child with her body. A man presses himself against the wall, trying to vanish into it.
And in the center, a man.
Early twenties. Skinny. Pale. Sweat pouring down his face like rain.
In one hand: a kitchen knife stained with rust…
or blood. I can’t tell, could be both for all I know.
The other is gripping the shoulder strap of a black vest with cylinders wired across his chest. The kind of thing you see in movies and hope never to see in person.
Fuck.
My eyes quickly sweep the room. To my right, near the entrance, a security guard, Steve, is standing stock still, taser drawn but not fired. I catch his eye and give a small shake of my head. Don’t engage.
He bobs his head carefully. He’s waiting. Watching. Knowing one twitch could mean a lot of people are dead. I’m guessing that’s the only reason he hasn’t fired yet. One misstep could take out Triage… or the whole hospital.
I take one step forward, slowly. Deliberate with arms raised, non-threatening.
“Hey.” I keep my voice gentle.
The man doesn’t react at first. He’s pacing in a tight circle, whispering under his breath. Rocking slightly.
“She was just here… she was just here… she was just here…”
The knife wavers as he moves.
I inch closer.
“Who was here?” I ask, quiet.
He pauses. Looks at me like I’ve just materialized out of thin air.
His eyes are glassy, pupils blown. But I know that look—I’d recognize it anywhere.
Grief. His expression… It guts me. Eyes red and sunken.
Mouth trembling. A man completely broken.
But something’s off—more than grief. There’s a twist in his posture, a jittery edge to the way his head keeps jerking.
He’s high. Or crashing. And he’s probably having some kind of psychotic episode on top of it.
“Mom,” he whispers, barely audible.
“Your mom,” I repeat, nodding. “Okay. Is she a patient here?”
His jaw moves, but no sound follows. Just a long, hollow stare, then the smallest chin lift. His hand tightens on the vest strap.
“She was here,” he says finally. “And now she’s not. She died. And no one told me. I was right here in the hospital, and no one fucking told me.”
Grief fires out of him like a gunshot, knocking the breath out of me.
It’s not just in his voice—it’s in his bones. His shoulders curl in. His knees tremble. He’s collapsing from the inside.
“What’s your name?”
He blinks slowly. “Alex.”
“Hi, Alex. I’m Dr. Zac. I run this department.”
I tell him not as an assertion of power but as an offering. A way to say, “I’m here. I see you. You matter.”
“I’m sorry about your mom,” I apologize. “Truly. But these people”—I gesture around Triage—“they’re scared. Let them go, and we can talk. Just you and me.”
Suddenly, Alex glances around, as if seeing the cowering crowd for the first time. His lip quivers.
“They don’t care,” he mumbles. “No one cared. She died alone.”
“I care,” I say softly. “I care, Alex. Let them go. They’re like you. Someone’s family.”
A long pause.
He nods.
Minutely.
But it’s enough.
I motion subtly to Steve. He understands and starts clearing people out. No screams, no abrupt movement. Like pulling a thread from a grenade. A couple of nurses peek out from behind the desk and assist the patients to move in an orderly, quiet procession.
I grab the desk phone and keep my eyes on Alex.
“Olivia,” I whisper the moment she picks up.
“Zac? What’s happening?”
“He’s alone. Homemade vest. Knife. Name’s Alex. Mother died here recently. Possible psychotic breakdown. I’ve cleared Triage. And I’m bringing him inside.”
“Jesus.”
“Lock it down once I’m through.”
“You sure you want him in here?”
“It’s a controlled space with fewer people. It’s the safest option; I can handle it.”
A beat of silence.
“Okay,” she says. “We’re almost clear. Chloe and I are taking the last two through now.”
Chloe.
I can’t let myself go there.
Hanging up, I tell him, “You did good, Alex. You let them go. You kept them safe. That matters.”
He doesn’t answer.
“But let’s talk somewhere quieter, yeah? Where no one will interrupt us. Just you and me.”
He nods again. Slower this time.
And we move.
I walk backward. Both hands raised. Talking the whole time in a calm and neutral tone. The same voice I use on addicts, and men who want to die without saying it out loud.
He follows.
Each step we take feels like wading through water. Alex’s boots scuff quietly, a jagged rhythm to his gait.
I can hear him breathing—shallow, uneven. A choked muttering under his breath. Still clutching the strap with a death grip and the knife by his side.
And still I walk. Backward. Palms out. Voice steady. Pretending this is just another trauma handover. Another Friday night with an agitated relative. Another volatile psych hold.
But it’s not.
Because this isn’t just a bomb threat. This is grief, raw and unfiltered, dragging its claws through Triage, owning the place and everyone inside.
I recognize it as clear as day.
Casey.
Her name slices across my thoughts like a scalpel. Uninvited and unavoidable.
Five years. Five years, and I still dream about the flatline beep. I still wake up with her name on my lips.
I was supposed to save her. I watched her crash. Watched the life bleed out of her while I stood there, useless. With my hands on her chest, her body going cold under my palms.
It never leaves.
The grief. The helplessness. The rage.
Sometimes, it comes out of nowhere. A voice or a phrase or a scent you haven’t smelled in years.
This time, it’s Alex. Because his grief is a mirror of my own.
Suddenly, I’m not standing in Triage. I’m not hearing Alex or the codes.
I’m back there—back with her. In the kitchen on our last night together.
The conversation I’d do anything to have again.
Tears streak down Casey’s face. “It's destroying you,” she cries. “And me along with it.”
“What am I supposed to do, Case? Pretend it doesn't bother me when my patients die?”
“No. But you need to let them go. I feel like I don’t know you anymore. I get your leftovers. You come home and I get a hollow shell.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s not untrue.”
I lean against the counter. “What do you want from me, Case? I’m not drinking. I’m not cheating. I’m just exhausted.”
“I’m not asking for perfection,” she pleads. “I’m asking for presence. I’m asking to feel like I matter.”
“You matter more than anything.”
“Then show me.”
She steps closer, her body brushing against mine. She rests her forehead against my chest, and I wrap my arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur into her hair. “I know I’m not… I know I haven’t been myself.”
She lifts her head and looks up at me, eyes shining. “Come away with me. For a weekend. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we can’t be reached.”
“I can’t. I’m on call—”
Alex’s voice cuts through the static. “She was just here.”
It echoes in my chest like a goddamn funeral bell.
I want to scream, Me too. She was just here. My wife. My world. My fucking everything.
Instead, I say nothing.
Because this isn’t about me.
Alex’s grief looks like mine. The same fury. The same helpless, hollow ache. The only difference is that I didn’t strap my pain to my chest. I didn’t leave the house with a knife. But I get it. I get what it means to need someone else to feel the same damn hurt you feel.
This is the longest walk of my life. This is someone carrying pain like a fuse, and I don’t know how long I have before he explodes. Literally.
My pulse thuds in my throat.
Stay calm.
I push through the Triage doors. Emergency lighting casts red shadows across white floors. The fire doors are open at the far end—Olivia and Chloe are pushing the last patients toward the tunnels.
Her brows are furrowed; mouth pressed into a hard line. She doesn’t look in my direction, but I can tell—she knows we’re here. She can feel it. The tension. The presence.
God, I hope she doesn’t turn around.
I angle my body, trying to block Alex’s view. Keep his attention on me.
Too late.
He stops. Head turning. Knife twitching. Eyes darting.
I keep talking.
“I know it feels like no one listened,” I admit. “But I’m listening now.”
He looks at me. Dead in the eyes.
“She was left,” he tells me flatly. “Alone. For hours.”
“I know,” I say, watching the rigid set of his shoulders. “And I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fix it.”
“No,” I agree. “But it’s a place to start.”
Ten more steps.
Just ten more.
If I can get him into Trauma One—we have a shot. Give Chloe time to disappear behind those fire doors.
“Almost there.” I match his pace. “You’re doing great, Alex. Just a little further.”
He nods, jaw clenched. His hands are white-knuckled. His breathing’s ragged.
We reach the room.
I push open the curtain.
He steps inside.
And I follow, heart pounding, praying to gods I don’t believe in.
Because the worst day of his life just met mine. And I don’t know if either of us is walking out of this in one piece.