Chapter 3 #2
I lean in closer, blocking out the chaos with my body, lowering my voice until it's just for him. My knee presses against the gurney as I bend over him. “Listen to me. You're safe here. Focus on my voice.”
His breathing stutters, his chest hitching.
The monitor spikes, his heart rate climbing into dangerous territory.
“You don't understand,” he insists, urgency threading through the pain.
His words slur together, consonants blurring at the edges.
“Names. Remember the… names.” He coughs on the last word, blood spotting his lips.
I glance up briefly, catching Lila's eye across the bed. She's already moving, issuing orders, her expression all focus and command. Her hands move without hesitation, starting an IV line and checking the pressure cuff. The resident beside her fumbles with a syringe, his fingers trembling.
“Alexei,” I continue again, firmer now. My thumb presses gently against the inside of his wrist, feeling the pulse flutter and skip. “I need you to breathe with me. In through your nose.”
He tries. I can see the effort it costs him, the way his chest barely rises, his ribs straining beneath bruised skin. His nostrils flare, pulling in air that doesn't seem to reach his lungs.
“Good,” I encourage softly, keeping my tone warm and reassuring. “Out through your mouth.”
His eyes never leave mine. They search my face like he's clinging to it and I'm the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. There's desperation there, the need to be heard overwhelming everything else.
“Betrayal,” he whispers, the word breaking apart on his tongue. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth, trickling down his chin in a thin line. “Inside.”
“Okay,” I soothe, even as my heart starts to pound harder. The word echoes in my head, matching the rhythm of the monitors. “You're doing great. Keep talking if you can.”
His fingers twitch against my wrist, a nervous habit, his thumb rubbing against his index finger again and again.
The motion is repetitive and compulsive, a tell I file away without meaning to.
His breathing grows more erratic, each inhale shorter than the last. The monitor screeches as oxygen levels dip into the eighties.
“Ark---” He coughs, blood flecking his lips, spattering across the white sheets. “Arkady.”
The name means nothing to me. It floats loose in my mind, a puzzle piece without context. But I commit it to memory anyway, tucking it away in the same place I store medication dosages and surgical protocols.
“Stay with me,” I urge, tightening my grip on his wrist just enough for him to feel it. My pulse throbs against his skin, our rhythms out of sync. “You're not alone.”
His eyes soften at that, relief flickering through the fear.
The tension in his jaw eases, just a fraction, and he nods faintly, the movement barely perceptible.
His head shifts against the gurney, his dark hair sticking to the vinyl.
“Tell pakhan," he murmurs, the words slurring as shock tightens its grip.
His accent thickens, the consonants bleeding together. “Danger…”
The monitor shrieks. Everything accelerates.
I call for epinephrine. The resident scrambles for the crash cart, the wheels rattling as he yanks it closer.
Hands move faster, a blur of motion and urgency.
I stay right where I am, my voice steady in his ear as we work to stabilize him, and his blood pressure drops.
His heart rate spikes and then falters. The numbers on the screen run together, red warnings flashing faster than I can process.
“Alexei, look at me,” I insist when his eyes start to roll back, the whites showing beneath his lashes. “Stay here. Stay with me.”
His grip loosens, his fingers slipping from my wrist, but his gaze remains fixed on my face. There's peace there now, the kind that comes when someone knows they've done all they can. The fight drains out of him, his muscles going slack, chest barely moving.
“Tell pakhan,” he whispers, more to himself than to me. Then he closes his eyes.
We fight. We push fluids, call for blood, and work through the algorithms with methodical focus.
Lila barks orders, her voice rising above the noise.
The resident compresses his chest, counting under his breath, sweat beading on his forehead.
I intubate, threading the tube down his throat with hands that don't shake anymore, adrenaline burning away the tremor.
But his body has already made its decision.
The monitor flatlines, the single high-pitched tone filling the room, drowning out everything else.
The time of death is called less than ten minutes later.
The room goes quiet in that peculiar way it always does after a loss, the adrenaline draining out and leaving behind the hollow echo of what could have been.
The monitors go silent. Someone turns off the alarms. The absence of sound is almost worse than the noise.
I step back, my hands dropping to my sides, and my chest tight as I stare down at him.
His face looks younger in death, the tension smoothed away, leaving behind features that might have been handsome under different circumstances.
His eyes remain closed, lashes dark against pale cheeks.
Alexei Morozov.
I memorize the name without knowing why. It loops through my head, insistent and haunting, refusing to let go.
Later, after the room has been cleared and the next patient is already on their way in, I find myself standing at the sink again, scrubbing my hands until the skin burns.
The water runs too hot, scalding my palms, turning them red and raw.
My reflection in the mirror looks pale, my eyes too bright, the storm-gray irises reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead.
Dark circles shadow the skin beneath, exhaustion etched into every line of my face.
Lila appears beside me, leaning her hip against the counter. She studies my face in silence for a moment before speaking, her expression concerned. “That one rattled you.”
I huff out a breath that's half a laugh, the sound bitter and hollow. “You noticed.”
She bumps my shoulder gently. “Your hands were shaking.”
I swallow, nodding once. The admission tastes like failure. “It's been a week.”
“Since the alley,” she supplies softly, her voice dropping to a near whisper.
I glance at her, surprised. I hadn't told her the details. Just that something happened. Something that got under my skin. But of course, she knows. Lila has always been able to read me better than anyone.
She gives me a look, one eyebrow arching. “You don't think I could tell? You've been wound tight since you came back.”
I turn back to the sink, watching the water swirl down the drain, carrying away soap and imagined blood. “He grabbed my wrist,” I murmur quietly, the memory pressing in with uncomfortable clarity. “Just like... like the man the other night.”
Lila's expression softens, tightening with worry. She reaches over and shuts off the water, then takes the towel from the dispenser and presses it into my hands. “Trauma has a way of echoing,” she offers. “Your brain is just trying to make sense of it.”
I nod, even though unease coils tighter in my stomach, a snake curling around itself. “The things he said didn't make sense. Names. Warnings. It felt...” I trail off, unsure how to finish the thought without sounding paranoid.
“Like unfinished business,” Lila finishes for me.
My eyes snap to hers. She shrugs lightly, her curls bouncing against her shoulders. “I've seen that look on your face before. When something doesn't sit right with you.”
I let out a slow breath, my chest loosening just a fraction. “I don't want to read into it.”
“Then don't,” she replies easily, giving my arm a squeeze. Her fingers are warm through my scrub sleeve. “You did your job. You listened. That matters but now let it go.”
I cling to that as the rest of the shift drags on.
But the unease doesn't fade. It lodges in my chest, a persistent pressure that refuses to ease. The parallels stack up in my mind despite my efforts to dismiss them. The grip on my wrist. The urgency in his voice. The sense that he was trying to pass something on before it was too late. Names I don’t recognize, pieces of a puzzle I don't want to solve.
And then there's the other man. The one in the alley.
I hadn't let myself think too hard about him in the days since it happened.
I was too afraid of where my thoughts might lead.
But now the memory crashes back with force.
His body braced against the brick wall, solid and heavy despite the blood loss.
The heat of his blood soaked through my scarf, warm and sticky against my palms. The way his eyes held mine even as his body failed him.
Dark brown ringed with green, pupils blown wide with pain but still aware.
Someone important.
The realization comes together slowly, clicking into place with uncomfortable certainty.
The men who came for him weren't panicked strangers or opportunistic criminals.
They moved with purpose and reverence. They surrounded him as if he were irreplaceable, lifting him with care that bordered on worship.
He belongs to a world I don't touch. A criminal one. The thought sends a chill through me, raising goosebumps on my arms despite the hospital's warmth. Even as another instinct rises beneath it, louder and more insistent.
Unfinished business.
I don't know what it means yet. I don't know how the pieces fit together, or how a dying man in an alley and a patient in my trauma bay connect.
All I know is that something has started moving, gears turning somewhere just out of sight.
The air feels charged, electric with energy that has nowhere to go.
When my shift finally ends, I walk through the hospital atrium alone, the wide glass space washed in late afternoon light.
The sun slants through the windows, shadows rippling across the marble floor.
Footsteps echo off the high ceiling, bouncing back distorted and strange.
Ordinary conversations drift around me. A family clusters near the information desk, voices low and worried.
A man in scrubs hurries past, his phone pressed to his ear.
An elderly woman sits on a bench, her hands folded in her lap, staring at nothing.
And still, the hairs on the back of my neck lift.
The sensation creeps over me slowly, prickling across my skin like static electricity.
I keep walking, resisting the urge to look over my shoulder, my reflection gliding alongside me on the polished floor.
The feeling intensifies, pressure building at the base of my skull.
Someone is watching. I'm sure of it now.
By the time I reach the doors, I understand one undeniable truth. I am no longer alone in my own life.