Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Chloe
Ifollow Olivia through the double doors leading to the tunnels. A nurse waits at the far end, clipboard in hand, hair frizzed into a halo that screams end of a twelve-hour shift.
Olivia hands over her patient smoothly, rattles off instructions, and signs something on the chart. I step forward to do the same.
Then I stop.
It hits like a second heartbeat in my chest—deep and instinctive.
“I’m not leaving him.”
Olivia turns. “What?!”
I swallow. “I’m not leaving. Dr. Zac—” His name catches halfway up my throat. “I can’t.”
She stares, waiting for the punchline. “There’s no choice,” she hisses. “Once I hit that trigger, the doors lock. You’re sealed in.”
I nod.
She shakes her head. “You’re out of your mind.”
“That’s fine,” I manage, breathless. “I’m staying.”
My mouth is dry. My hands are still trembling—from the rush, from the fear, from everything I haven’t said to Zac.
Olivia’s eyes search mine—for reason or doubt? She doesn’t find either.
She curses under her breath, muttering something about interns, then wheels the bed away without another word.
I turn toward the ER and start running.
But I don’t get far. Ten steps into the department, I hear it—a faint, thin voice. A soft clattering. Repeating something over and over in a language I don’t understand. Not yelling—pleading.
It’s coming from behind a curtain.
I stop in my tracks.
No one’s around. The corridor is hollow. My legs are moving before I’ve made a decision. Before I’ve formulated a plan.
I slip through the curtain.
The bed is a mess of bunched blankets. She’s old—eighty-something at a guess—with skin like parchment and eyes wild with fear. Her gown’s half off her shoulder, IV cannula pulled nearly sideways, mouth moving fast around a stream of European-sounding syllables.
She was left behind. Missed.
My heart races. There’s no time to page anyone. I glance at her wristband.
Name: Elektra Papadopoulos
Age: 88
Language: Greek
Next of kin: Alexis Papadopoulos (Daughter)
“Elektra?” I try. She blinks, eyes watery. Her fingers flutters toward me, birdlike. I take her hand in mine.
“I’m a doctor,” I say gently, pointing to my name badge. She probably doesn’t understand a word. Doesn’t matter. Tone translates.
Her fingers tighten around mine, fragile and freezing. Tears spring into her eyes and she starts repeating something again, quiet and desperate, like a prayer.
I wrap a blood pressure cuff around her arm. HR elevated. BP low. Oxygen at ninety-three percent. Stable enough to move. She’s not safe here. Not alone.
“We’re moving,” I tell her. “Hang on.”
There’s a wheelchair outside the bay. I drag it in, lock the brakes, and bend to lift her. “One, two, three,” I whisper. She’s lighter than I expected. All bones and blankets.
She gasps but doesn’t fight. I settle her in the chair, wrap the blanket tight around her, and unhook the IV bag, looping it over the chair handle.
“Hold on,” I warn her.
Then I run.
The wheelchair jolts and rattles, the IV bag swinging with every bump. Elektra mutters the whole way, a litany of fear. But she doesn’t scream or resist. Maybe because I don’t stop. I don’t hesitate.
All I can think is: What if I hadn’t heard her?
What if I’d kept moving?
She’s not on a monitor. Her chart was missing. She’d have died in that bed. Alone. Forgotten. Confused and scared.
She’d have become a line in the debrief tomorrow. One patient missed. Timeline unclear. And that would’ve been it.
But she has a name. A daughter. A life.
And now, she has me.
I take a breath and push harder. The wheels squeal against the floor, and I see the tunnel doors ahead. They’re still open.
Olivia’s almost at the end, about to disappear around the bend.
“Olivia!” I yell, breath tearing from my throat. “Wait!”
She whirls around, eyes widening at the sight of the chair.
Running toward me, she doesn’t waste time asking questions. “Jesus, Monroe,” she mutters, grabbing the handles. “Thought you came to your senses.”
“Not a chance.”
Her gaze softens as she looks at Elektra—sees the panic, the age, the oversight.
“Good catch.”
I’m already backing away.
“I have to go back.”
“Chloe—”
“Just lock it.”
I sprint.
Behind me, the hydraulics engage. Then hiss. The scrape of metal on metal.
With a heavy, final clang, the fire door locks.
I don’t look back.
I’ve just locked myself in a building with a man wearing a bomb. And for a moment, the reality hits me too fast.
A wave of nausea rolls up from my gut, and the cramp that follows is like being stabbed from the inside. I double over, nearly dropping to my knees, one hand braced against the wall as I fight to breathe through it.
Not now.
Not now, not now.
Pain rips through me—deep, twisting, white-hot. I taste bile. See stars. For one terrifying second, I think I might throw up or pass out—or both.
But I don’t.
I close my eyes. Inhale through grit teeth. Drag myself upright.
I’ve lived with this pain long enough to know it doesn’t get the last word.
I do what I always do. I reset.
And I walk.
Because if I let myself unravel, I can’t help him. I can’t do anything at all.
The ER is unrecognizable. There’s no voices or rolling beds. Only a strange, thick stillness and the distant wail of a siren from outside. The overhead lights have switched to red emergency strips, glowing in harsh beats above the exits like open wounds.
I’ve walked this same corridor dozens of times today. Now it looks like a crime scene. A blood pressure cuff lies in the middle of the floor. Someone’s stethoscope dangles from a monitor. Even the hum of the air vents seems louder now.
It’s too quiet.
But I’ve made my choice.
I’m not leaving him.
My sneakers squeak faintly on the floor. Something sticks to the bottom of one—a latex glove, maybe, or tape. I shake it off without looking.
I press my back to the wall. Now it’s fear running laps in my chest, cold and precise.
What if he’s hurt?
What if he’s dead?
What if—?
Stop.
Breathe.
In. One, two, three.
Out. One, two, three.
Confident, capable, and in control.
I move again. Bay four—empty. Bay two—a lone drip bag swinging from the quiet draft of the HVAC system.
Step by step.
Zac wouldn’t want me here. He told me to leave. He looked at me, mouth open, about to say something important before he bolted out of the on-call room door and disappeared.
What if that’s the last time I see him?
What if this all goes wrong, and I never get another moment to say what I should have weeks ago?
I reach Trauma One and hover behind the curtain, staying just outside. But I can’t hear anything.
My palms are damp. I wipe them on the thighs of my scrubs and peek slowly around the edge of the curtain.
Zac’s gaze snaps to mine.
Crap.
I pull back so fast I nearly eat the floor.
He saw me.
Just for a second, but long enough. His eyes widened.
My heart is thudding hard, trying to pound its way out through my ribs.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Brilliant, Chloe. Real stealth move. Should’ve worn the cape. Or maybe a neon sign: INTERN, FIVE FOOT FIVE, TERRIBLE AT ESPIONAGE. But I had to know—with my own eyes—that he was okay.
Now what?
I flatten myself to the wall, listening, straining to hear.
Zac’s voice floats through the quiet. It’s low and calm. No shouting yet. That’s a good sign.
For a moment, I close my eyes.
He’s not hurt.
It pisses me off that he walks into danger as if it can’t touch him. Like we’re all breakable except him. I press my lips together and lean out again, careful not to make a sound.
The man’s ten feet from Zac, one hand white-knuckling the vest. The knife is at his side, not raised. Zac’s body language hasn’t changed—he’s open, steady, palms out. Talking. Maintaining eye contact.
I can’t hear the words, but the rhythm of Zac’s voice is unmistakable. Reassuring and grounded. Like he’s talking someone off a ledge. Because that’s exactly what he’s doing.
And it’s working.
I retreat a few steps.
Okay. Breathe. You need to do something. You can’t just crouch here like a scared little rabbit. Listen.
Zac’s voice, clearer this time, finds me.
“What was your mom’s name?” Zac’s tone is gentle, coaxing.
The man’s response is quieter—almost too quiet. But I catch it.
“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Weston.”
Now I have a name.
I drop low and hurry toward Central. At the desk, I duck behind the counter and risk a glance upward.
No movement.
I reach for the mouse and gently nudge it.
The screen comes to life. The hospital’s patient charting system fills the monitor.
I don’t know exactly what I’m doing—this isn’t part of any protocol—but if Zac’s asking about his mother, that must mean she’s important.
I’m working on a hunch that maybe there’s a file. A record. Something I can use.
I pull up the ER admissions and type the name into the search bar.
It doesn’t take long. There she is.
Elizabeth R. Weston. Female, 66. COPD. Deceased.
Next of kin: Alexander Weston
She was brought in two nights ago. Admitted via ambulance for shortness of breath. Ongoing history of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. There’s a timestamped update about sudden desaturation in the corridor. Respiratory arrest. Died en route to resus.
And then I see it.
Attending: Dr. Zachery Bennett.
Of course it was Zac.
I stare at the screen like it might rewrite itself. If I blink enough, another name will appear in that attending field—Kensington, maybe. Or Clarke. Anyone else. But it doesn’t change.
Zac was her doctor.
And now he’s out there talking to her son. The son who doesn’t know. The son who wants to blow this whole fucking place sky-high.
I press my forehead to the desk, heart sinking.
My stomach twists—not from fear or Crohn’s—but from knowing Zac’s out there, trying to fix something that already broke.
He’s ten feet from a man ready to explode—literally and figuratively—with nothing to protect him but his voice and open hands and that stupid fake calm expression.
He’s playing the hero, because that’s what he does—he tries to patch holes in everyone else so he doesn’t have to face the one Casey left in him. It’s not bravery. It’s penance.
I scroll further.
ER notes: Patient was stable when parked in corridor. Condition deteriorated. No beds available. Dr. Bennett started compressions. Called TOD. Family notified: Attempted call. No contact. Son arrived after death confirmed. Escorted by security. Visibly upset.
I close the file.
This wasn’t neglect or callousness. It was the system and circumstance.
Alex had arrived too late. He probably didn’t even get to say goodbye. No one to explain. Just his mother—dead. A zipped body bag. A system that moved too fast to see him.
I rub the back of my hand across my mouth, trying to focus.
This isn’t coming from rage or drugs, but from grief—grief that shatters your mind if no one is there to catch you.
Panic flickers through my limbs.
I don’t know what to do.
I want to storm in there and drag Zac out. To stand in front of Alex and scream at him that Zac tried to save his mom. That he cared. That he did his best.
But I know I can’t do any of that.
Not without making it worse.
I force myself to sit still for a few more seconds, taking shallow breaths through my nose. The pain in my abdomen is sharper now, reminding me that it hasn’t magically gone away. But it doesn’t matter.
Not compared to this.
I hustle back toward Trauma One, keeping low and close to the wall, every step calculated.
My body’s heavy and light at the same time.
Adrenaline pulling me forward, Crohn’s dragging me down.
I feel like I’m split into two—the intern who’s about to make a dangerous decision, and the girl who used to lie in this same ER, hoping someone would explain what the hell was happening to her.
This isn’t about just saving Zac.
It’s about providing Alex with something he was never offered two nights ago.
Truth. Closure. A reason not to destroy everything.
And I’m the only one who can offer him that.
Once I’m outside Trauma One, I press my palm to the floor and push up—