Chapter11- protected
578 Words
George
George doesn't rush.
People expect that — panic, shouting, emotion spilling everywhere — but panic wastes time. He learned that early. Fear is only useful if it sharpens you. Anything else gets people hurt.
The hospital smells wrong. Too clean. Too exposed.
He clocks exits automatically, notes the security guard's posture, the way the nurse at the desk avoids his eyes when he gives his name.
They hesitate before answering him.
That tells him enough.
He follows them down the corridor without speaking. His hands itch with the need to do something — anything — but he keeps them still, fingers curled tight against his palms.
Control first.
Action second.
Sera's room is at the end.
Of course it is.
He stops just inside the doorway. Doesn't move closer right away. He needs the full picture before he decides what comes next.
She looks smaller than she should.
Not fragile — Sera has never been fragile — but diminished. Reduced to bandages and machines and a body that isn't braced for impact the way it usually is. Tubes run where they don't belong. Her skin is too pale. Someone has pushed her hair back from her face like that makes any of this acceptable.
George exhales slowly through his nose.
Alive.
That's the only fact that matters.
A doctor starts talking. George holds up a hand without looking at him.
"Start with what you're not telling me."
The doctor falters. People always do when you skip the script.
"She's stable," he says instead.
George finally turns his head.
"That's not an answer."
Silence stretches. The doctor fills it with details — wound trajectory, surgery, unconsciousness, may wake, may not. George absorbs it all without reacting. Files it away. Builds a list.
When the doctor finishes, George nods once.
"Who was on shift when she was brought in?"
The doctor blinks. "I—"
"And who signed off on security," George continues. "Because if you're about to tell me there's one guard and a camera with a blind spot, we're going to have a different conversation."
The doctor clears his throat. A nurse suddenly finds something very important to do at the far end of the hall.
George steps closer to the bed.
Up close, he can see the faint crease between Sera's brows, even unconscious. The way her fingers twitch, just slightly, like her body hasn't accepted the stillness.
She always protected the rest of them.
Even when she shouldn't have.
Even when it broke her.
George swallows. Hard. The feeling in his chest doesn't have a neat name. It never does. It's pressure. Heat. Noise. It sharpens his focus until the edges of the world blur.
He leans in just enough that no one else can hear him.
"I'm here," he says quietly. "You don't have to do this part alone."
The machines keep beeping. She doesn't respond.
That's fine.
He straightens and turns back toward the door.
"Someone did this," he says, voice flat. Not a question.
"Yes," the doctor answers carefully.
George nods again.
"Good," he says. "Because that means there's a reason."
And reasons can be found.
He takes out his phone, already scrolling, already moving pieces into place. Whoever thought Sera was alone made a mistake. Whoever thought she didn't matter made a worse one.
George doesn't feel many things.
But what he feels for his sister is precise.
And whoever put her on that beach just signed their own death warrant.
- Writer
