The ambulance jerks forward—LURCH—sirens screaming—WEE-OO WEE-OO—so loud they rattle my skull. Red light flashes across the ceiling—SWEEP SWEEP—turning Serafin's face into something unreal, like a bad dream I can't wake up from.
"Stay with me," I whisper, gripping his hand.
"I am," he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. "Just… don't let them knock me out."
The paramedic snorts lightly while tightening a bandage—RIP VELCRO—but his eyes stay serious. "No promises, buddy. You're losing more blood than I like."
Serafin grimaces. "I've had worse dates."
I laugh despite myself, the sound breaking halfway into a sob. "You're impossible."
"Occupational hazard," he says weakly.
The paramedic checks the monitor—BEEP BEEP—steady but fast. "Pressure's holding for now."
"For now," I echo quietly.
The ambulance hits a bump—THUD—and Serafin hisses through his teeth.
"Sorry," the driver calls from the front.
Serafin squeezes my fingers faintly. "Hey. Look at me."
I lean closer, forehead nearly touching his. "I'm here."
"You didn't stop," he says. "You could've. When he pushed. When it got ugly."
I swallow hard. "I've been stopping my whole life."
His thumb moves slightly against my skin. "Not anymore."
The siren cuts abruptly—CLICK—replaced by the echoing sounds of the hospital bay—BEEPING, FOOTSTEPS, voices overlapping.
"Trauma coming in!" someone shouts as the doors burst open—BANG—cold air rushing in—WHOOSH.
They roll him out fast—RATTLE—and I jog alongside, breathless.
"Gunshot wound, lateral torso, no exit," the paramedic reports. "Vitals stable but dropping BP."
A nurse glances at me. "You family?"
I hesitate. "I—"
"She's with me," Serafin says hoarsely.
The nurse nods. "Alright. Stay back but stay close."
They push through double doors—SWING—bright lights stabbing my eyes. I press myself against the wall as they work around him—CLATTER, BEEPING, RUSTLE—words flying too fast to follow.
"On three."
"One, two—"
Serafin groans—GRUNT—then goes still.
"Serafin?" I whisper.
The doctor looks at me sharply. "Ma'am, we need space."
I back up, hands shaking, watching as they cut his shirt—RIP—blood blooming dark against white sheets.
The monitor beeps faster—BEEP BEEP BEEP—and my chest tightens.
"BP's dropping."
"Get another line."
"Prep for imaging."
I feel useless. Completely fucking useless.
A police officer appears beside me quietly. "Caoimhe?"
I jump. "What?"
"We need to take your statement," he says gently. "When you're ready."
I stare at Serafin's still body. "Not now."
He nods. "I'll be right outside."
They wheel Serafin away—RATTLE—the doors swinging shut—SWING—cutting him out of my sight.
The silence after is unbearable.
I sink into a chair—CREAK—head dropping into my hands. My palms are still stained with dried blood. His blood.
"Fuck," I whisper.
A nurse passes, then another. Time stretches thin and cruel. Every second feels like punishment.
Footsteps approach—TAP TAP—and I look up to see the doctor again.
"How is he?" I ask, barely breathing.
"He's stable for now," she says. "But we won't know more until imaging comes back."
"For now," I repeat again, hating the phrase.
She studies me. "You should sit. Try to breathe."
I nod mechanically. "Okay."
She hesitates. "He's lucky. The angle could've been worse."
"Lucky," I whisper. "Yeah."
She leaves.
I stare at the wall across from me, mind replaying Declan's face. His voice. His certainty.
You don't get to rewrite history.
My phone buzzes—BZZZT—making me flinch. I look down.
Unknown Number.
You think this ends with him arrested?
My blood runs cold.
I type back with shaking fingers. Don't contact me again.
The reply comes instantly.
It already has.
I look up sharply, scanning the waiting area. Strangers sit scattered, quiet, unaware. No one looks at me.
The officer across the room catches my eye. "Everything okay?"
I nod too fast. "Yeah."
Another nurse approaches. "Caoimhe?"
"Yes?"
"They're moving him into surgery," she says. "You can't come past this point."
Surgery.
The word hits harder than anything so far.
"How long?" I ask.
She hesitates. "A while."
I stand, legs weak. "Please. Tell him I'm here."
She nods softly. "I will."
As she walks away, the hospital lights hum overhead—HMMMM—steady, indifferent.
I sit back down slowly, hands clasped so tight my knuckles ache.
I told the truth.
I broke the silence.
And now I'm waiting—powerless—for the consequences to finish unfolding.
Somewhere behind those doors, Serafin is fighting to stay alive.
And somewhere else, I know, someone is already rewriting the next chapter of this story.
I just don't know yet whether I'll be allowed to read it—or if this is where my path finally ends before it meets anything like peace.