Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
Chloe
Ican’t believe he called me out.
I was doing fine—hidden behind that damn curtain, staying still, keeping quiet, trying to help. I wasn’t planning some grand rescue.
Okay, maybe I was.
But now?
I’m standing here, exposed and shaking, because Zac lit a spotlight straight to me.
The heat is rolling off him. That furious kind of silence that says, “you’re smarter than this. What the hell are you doing?”
But screw that. I wasn’t being reckless—I was being careful. I was listening. I was trying to find a way to de-escalate the situation. And now I can’t. Now I’m a liability. The one thing I didn’t want to be. I’ve lost my shot at helping.
Zac moves subtly, stepping slightly between us. Protective without making it obvious.
Alex notices, though. “You think I’m going to hurt her.”
Zac doesn’t answer.
“Alex,” I say gently, “I don’t think you want to hurt anyone.”
His fingers twitch on the knife handle. “Doesn’t mean I won’t.”
He raises it—not to swing, just to point.
At me.
“Come here.”
Zac reacts instantly. “No, Chloe.”
But I’m already moving.
I have to.
Slow steps. Every muscle in my body is screaming at me to stop—but I don’t.
Because I saw the hesitation when he lifted that knife. I saw the crack in his armor. The thread of humanity still hanging on.
If I can hold on to that thread… we still have a chance.
“Chloe,” Zac warns in a deep voice.
“I know,” I whisper.
Alex watches every step I take like I’m the one who might detonate.
I stop in front of him, barely a foot apart. The knife’s still pointed at my chest.
“Wh-who’d you lose?” he asks. “You said you lost someone.”
I could tell him about Casey—but that’s Zac’s grief, not mine. I could bring up poor Borris. But instead, I go with something real. Mine.
“Myself,” I confess.
He frowns. He was expecting a name.
“I’ve spent half my life in the hospital, with my mom by my side. I’ve spent hours with doctors who didn’t believe me. Who gaslit me. Who didn’t care enough to listen.”
He tilts his head.
“But I also remember the ones who stayed. The ones who looked me in the eye and said, ‘I believe you.’” I glance back at Zac. “Some of them care more than others.”
Alex’s gaze cuts to him, then back to me. “He let my mom die.”
Zac doesn’t flinch. “I tried to save her.”
“It wasn’t enough.” Alex’s mouth trembles.
“No,” Zac agrees. “It wasn’t. But it’s the truth.”
The silence that follows pulls the thread too tight.
And up close, I see it.
The vest. The wires. The crude metal plate. The blinking red light, steady and slow; a mechanical heartbeat.
One wrong breath away from disaster.
My voice comes out softer than I mean it to. “Alex, do you think she’d want this?”
He blinks. “What?”
“This. You. Right now. Knife in hand. Bomb strapped to your chest.”
Alex’s throat bobs as he swallows.
His mouth opens. And for a moment, the anger breaks. Not into calm, but into sorrow. A grief wide and wild.
Then—
Bang!
A crash in the corridor. Loud and piercing. Metal on linoleum. A dropped tray, maybe. A cart falling over? Doesn’t matter. Because in here, it might as well be a gunshot.
Alex jerks so violently I feel it in my chest—like we’re tethered, and his fear yanks me forward. His arm flies up, knife flashing, wide and fast and unthinking. Not at me, but in defense. Or reflex.
Zac moves fast, holding his palms up.
“Alex.” His voice is firm but low. “It was just a sound.”
Alex’s eyes dart. His face gray with sweat. Pupils huge.
The light on his chest keeps blinking.
Red.
Red.
Red.
Zac is still talking. Reeling him back in.
And me?
I’m frozen.
Everything inside me is screaming: Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t become the reason this explodes.
Alex’s eyes are wild. He’s not here. His body is in Trauma One with us, but his mind is somewhere darker—somewhere collapsing. Bleeding grief and panic in equal measure.
The recognition drains from his face. And I realize he’s not looking at us anymore. He’s looking through us.
“Alex…” I whisper.
His gaze snaps to mine—and for a second, I think maybe it worked. Maybe I’ve reached him.
But there’s nothing in his eyes except confusion. He doesn’t know where—or who—he is.
He’s caught between the world that broke him and the one trying to hold him still. And he doesn’t know where to land.
The room narrows to a single point: this breath, this second, this choice.
I need to say something.
Do something.
Be something.
But my mouth won’t move.
The fear isn’t in my brain—it’s embedded in my bones.
Because if I say the wrong thing, he might snap. If I say nothing, he might snap anyway. And if Zac moves again, if someone coughs in the corridor, or if a door slams—
We’ll all be statistics.
This is it.
The break.
Zac’s voice drops even lower. “Alex, I need you to listen to me.”
He’s drenched in sweat. Beneath his vest, his shirt clings to his chest. His eyes keep flicking.
The red light flashes.
I want to move. I want to reach him. But if I shift now, he might think it’s a threat. He might react.
I glance at Zac. His eyes cut toward me briefly. I see everything in that look.
Don’t. Move.
So I don’t. I stay still, chest clenched on a breath, legs locked, fingers curled into the fabric of my scrubs to keep them from trembling.
Alex exhales, long and shaky.
His eyes flick to me again.
His lips tremble.
But then—
Another sound. Softer this time.
A scuffle of shoes. More than one pair.
Police? Security?
It doesn’t matter. Because it’s enough.
Alex jolts, and the moment ruptures.
His body coils. His hand twitches.
Zac surges forward. He yells something—Alex’s name, perhaps. Or mine.
But I can’t hear it.
Because the sound flooding my ears is too loud.
The rush of blood.
The pulse of terror.
The light still blinking.
Red.
Red.
Red.
And the moment we were desperately holding together—thread by thread—just blew apart in our hands.