Trauma Unit — Elijah Greyhawk
The ambulance doors burst open, frosty night air replaced by the sterile brightness of the trauma bay. Elijah jumped down before the medics could stop him, lifting Chet in his arms as if he weighed nothing.
“Sir—” a nurse started.
Elijah didn’t slow. “He’s crashing. Move.”
The trauma team surged forward, guiding him toward the nearest bay. Monitors beeped, carts rattled, voices overlapped in clipped commands.
“Get him on the table—”
“Elijah,” Torres said gently, “you have to let them take him.”
Elijah hesitated, jaw clenched, arms locked around Chet. Chet’s head rested against his shoulder, breath shallow, skin cold. “Elijah,” Torres repeated, softer now. “Let them help him.”
Elijah exhaled shakily and lowered Chet onto the trauma bed. The medics moved instantly: oxygen mask secured, IV lines connected, stabilizer reattached to the implant node.
A doctor leaned over Chet. “What happened to him?”
Torres answered. “Implant overload. Unknown tech. Severe autonomic instability.”
The doctor’s expression tightened. “We’ll take it from here.”
Elijah stepped back only because he had to. But he didn’t leave. He stood at the edge of the bed, hands trembling, eyes locked on Chet.
###
Trauma Unit Entrance — Carter Hayes
Hayes pushed through the double doors, Rourke beside him, Kline cuffed and silent between them. Marianne, Eliza, and Evan followed, weapons holstered but posture still alert.
A federal transport team waited in the hallway — two agents, a medic, and a reinforced containment gurney.
The lead agent nodded. “We’ll take custody.”
Hayes didn’t hand Kline over immediately. He stepped close, voice low. “You’re done. Whatever you built, whatever you think you started — it ends here.”
Kline’s expression didn’t change. “You can’t stop a process already in motion.”
Hayes’ jaw tightened. “Watch me.”
He shoved Kline toward the agents. They secured him to the gurney, restraints clicking into place. Kline didn’t resist. But his eyes drifted toward the trauma bay. Toward Chet. And he smiled.
Hayes’ stomach twisted. “Get him out of my sight,” he said.
The agents wheeled Kline down the hall. Hayes didn’t watch him go. He turned toward the trauma bay.
###
Command Unit Arrival — Leah Gagnon
Leah stepped out of the command vehicle, legs unsteady, adrenaline finally giving way to exhaustion. She pulled off her headset, rubbing the ache from her temples. The hospital lights were harsh after hours of staring at screens. She spotted Hayes through the glass doors and hurried toward him.
“Carter,” she said, breath catching, “is he—”
Hayes shook his head. “They’re working on him.”
Leah swallowed hard. “Elijah?”
“Hasn’t moved from his side.”
Leah nodded, throat tight. “Good.”
Hayes studied her for a moment. “You did good work tonight.”
Leah didn’t answer right away. Her eyes drifted toward the trauma bay. “Just tell me he’s going to make it,” she whispered.
Hayes didn’t lie. “I don’t know.”
Leah closed her eyes. Then opened them again, steady. “Then we'll stay.”
###
Trauma Bay — Elijah Greyhawk
The trauma team worked in controlled chaos: monitors beeping, commands exchanged, hands moving with practiced precision.
“BP dropping—”
“Push another bolus—”
“Neural activity still unstable—”
“Stabilizer isn’t syncing—”
Elijah stood frozen at the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the rail so tightly that his knuckles whitened. Chet’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. A doctor glanced at Elijah. “You need to step back.”
Elijah didn’t move. “I’m not leaving him.”
The doctor didn’t argue — there was no time. Chet’s eyelids fluttered.
“Elijah…” he whispered, barely audible.
Elijah leaned close. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
Chet’s fingers twitched toward him. Then his body seized. Monitors screamed. “Seizure—”
“Get the anticonvulsant,” “Stabilizer’s losing sync—” “Elijah, move back—”
Elijah didn’t. He stayed right where he was. Because Chet could still hear him.
And Elijah wasn’t going anywhere.