Trauma Bay — Elijah Greyhawk
The seizure hit hard. Chet’s entire body arched off the bed, muscles locked, eyes rolled back. The monitors erupted in a chorus of alarms — shrill, overlapping, urgent.
“Seizure activity increasing—”
“Get the anticonvulsant—”
“Stabilizer’s losing sync—”
“Elijah, move back—now!”
Elijah didn’t move. He gripped the rail with one hand and Chet’s wrist with the other, grounding him, refusing to let go. “Chet—hey—listen to me,” Elijah said, voice shaking. “You’re safe. You’re out. Stay with me.”
A nurse tried to guide him back. “Sir, you need to step away—”
“No,” Elijah snapped, eyes locked on Chet. “He can hear me.”
The doctor didn’t argue — there was no time. “Push two milligrams—”
“Heart rate dropping—”
“Stabilizer offline—”
Chet’s body jerked again, harder this time. “Elijah…” he whispered, barely audible through the mask.
Elijah leaned close. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
Then Chet’s body went limp. Too limp. The monitors flatlined into a single, piercing tone.\
Trauma Bay — Medical Team
“Code blue!”
“Start compressions!”
“Charging—”
“Clear!”
Chet’s body jolted as the shock hit him. Elijah flinched, instinctively reaching forward.
Torres grabbed his arm. “Elijah—stop. Let them work.”
He didn’t hear her. He heard nothing except the flatline.
“Clear!”
Another shock. No rhythm. The doctor’s voice cut through the chaos. “Get him out of here.”
Elijah froze. “No.”
“Now,” the doctor said, eyes sharp. “We can’t work with you in the room.”
Torres and a nurse moved in, guiding Elijah back. He resisted — for a heartbeat, for two — then his legs gave out, and they pulled him toward the door.
“Elijah,” Torres said softly, “you have to let them try.”
The doors swung shut behind him. The flatline tone continued on the other side.\
Hallway — Carter Hayes
Hayes turned as Elijah stumbled out of the trauma bay, pale, shaking, eyes wide with shock.
“Elijah,” Hayes said, stepping forward.
Elijah didn’t seem to hear him. He pressed both palms against the glass window, staring into the chaos inside — the medics working over Chet’s still body, the crash cart, the defibrillator pads, the frantic movement.
“Come on,” Elijah whispered, voice cracking. “Come on, come on—”
Hayes stood beside him, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides. He’d seen this before. Too many times. But never like this. Never with one of theirs.
“Elijah,” Hayes said quietly, “they’re doing everything they can.”
Elijah didn’t blink. “He was talking,” he whispered. “He was talking to me.”
Hayes swallowed. “I know.”
But Elijah wasn’t listening. His world was behind the glass.
###
Hallway — Eliza Morningstar
Footsteps approached — steady, purposeful, familiar.
Eliza.
Eliza didn’t rush. She didn’t gasp or freeze, or ask what happened. She took one look at Elijah’s face, at the way his hands trembled against the glass, and she understood everything.
“Elijah,” she whispered.
He didn’t turn.
“Elijah,” she repeated, stepping closer, her voice low and sure — the voice of someone who had pulled bodies from rivers, who had sat with grieving families, who had carried the weight of her own people on her shoulders.
He finally looked at her.
And something in him broke.
Eliza reached out and gripped the front of his jacket, pulling him one step away from the window — not to separate him from Chet, but to anchor him.
“You listen to me,” she said, eyes locked on his. “You did not fail him.”
Elijah shook his head, breath shuddering. “I should’ve — I should’ve gotten him out sooner—”
“No,” Eliza said firmly. “You got him out. You. No one else. You carried him out of hell.”
Elijah’s throat tightened. “He’s dying.”
Eliza’s voice softened, but her grip didn’t. “He’s fighting. And he’s not fighting alone.”
Inside the trauma bay, a doctor shouted:
“Clear!”
A jolt. The flatline wavered.
Elijah flinched.
Eliza stepped closer, her forehead nearly touching his. “You hear me? You don’t get to carry this alone. Not this time.”
Elijah’s breath hitched. “He said my name.”
“I know,” she whispered. “And he’s going to say it again.”
Behind them, Hayes stood silent, watching the two of them — understanding that this was not his moment to speak.
Inside, another shout:
“Again — clear!”
The flatline flickered. Then — a single beep. Another.
Elijah sagged forward, knees buckling. Hayes caught one arm. Eliza caught the other.
Together, they held him up.
Inside the trauma bay, the rhythm steadied — fragile, but alive.
Elijah pressed his forehead to the glass again, tears slipping down his face.
“Come back,” he whispered. “Come back to me.”
Eliza rested a hand on his back — not comforting, not pitying, but steady.
A protector to a protector.
A warrior to a warrior.
Someone who understood the cost.