Mark
The doors swing shut behind her, and the sound lands heavier than any bullet did.
One second she’s there—bloodied, fierce, commanding the room like it bends to her will—and the next she’s gone, swallowed by the OR lights and stainless steel and the weight of a decision no one could talk her out of.
I sag back against the gurney before my knees give out.
Mom’s hands are on me immediately. Solid. Steady. The kind that don’t shake even when everything else is falling apart.
“Sit,” she says, firm but gentle. “You’re not chasing her in there.”
“I’m not trying to,” I grit out, though my body disagrees, every instinct screaming to follow, to protect, to do something. My shoulder throbs in deep, nauseating pulses, but it’s nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest.
Luke finishes
