The line stays quiet long enough that I think the call dropped.
"Hello?" I say again, my voice barely holding together.
"This is Dr. Hargreeve," the voice replies calmly. Too calmly. "I'm one of the attending surgeons."
I grip the phone harder. "Is he alive?"
A pause. Just half a second. Enough to make my chest seize.
"Yes," he says. "But we need to speak with you in person."
My knees nearly buckle.
"Okay," I whisper. "I'm here."
A nurse approaches almost immediately, like she'd been waiting—TAP TAP of her shoes sharp against the floor. "Come with me."
I follow her down the hall, past rooms filled with quiet suffering, past machines that hiss and beep—HISS… BEEP… BEEP—each sound a reminder that survival isn't clean. It's mechanical. Messy. Conditional.
She opens a door—CLICK—and gestures me inside.
The room is small. Too white. A table, three chairs. The surgeon is already there, standing, hands clasped. He looks tired. The kind of tired that doesn't go away with sleep.
"Ms. Caoimhe," he says. "Please sit."
I do.
He doesn't sugarcoat it. I appreciate that.
"The surgery was successful," he begins. "We were able to stop the internal bleeding and remove the fragments lodged near his lung."
My breath rushes out of me. "So he's going to be okay?"
"He's alive," he says carefully. "But there were complications."
Of course there were.
"He lost a significant amount of blood," the doctor continues. "And there was trauma beyond what we initially saw."
"What kind of trauma?" I ask.
He meets my eyes. "Old injuries."
My stomach tightens. "Old…?"
"He's been hurt before," he says plainly. "Repeatedly. Some of the scarring suggests prolonged exposure to violence."
I feel like I've been punched.
"I didn't know," I say automatically.
"I believe you," he replies. "But recovery won't be simple. Physically or otherwise."
"How long until he wakes up?"
"Hours. Maybe longer."
"And when he does?"
"He'll be disoriented. Possibly agitated."
I nod. "I can handle that."
He studies me for a moment. "Can you?"
"Yes," I say without hesitation. "I can."
He sighs. "We'll keep him in ICU. Limited visitors."
"I'm not leaving," I tell him.
He gives a small nod. "I assumed as much."
When I step back into the hallway, the police officer is waiting.
"You heard?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Good," he says. "Because now I need to ask you something difficult."
I brace myself. "Go ahead."
"Did Serafin tell you who did this?"
I hesitate.
The hallway feels too open. Too exposed.
"He said he wasn't done," I say finally.
The officer's jaw tightens. "That's what I was afraid of."
"You know who it is," I say.
"We have suspicions," he replies. "But no confirmation. Yet."
A social worker approaches, clipboard tucked against her chest—RUSTLE of papers. "Caoimhe?"
"Yes."
"I'm here to talk about aftercare," she says gently. "And protection."
"Protection?" I echo.
She lowers her voice. "There were… threats made. To you."
My blood runs cold. "From who?"
She exchanges a look with the officer. "We believe the same individual responsible for Serafin's injuries."
I laugh sharply. "Of course."
She doesn't smile. "This isn't something to brush off."
"I'm not," I say. "I just refuse to be scared into disappearing again."
The officer tilts his head. "Again?"
I meet his gaze. "That's a story for another day."
They let me see Serafin briefly.
The ICU smells different. Sterile. Heavy. Machines hum softly—WHRRR… BEEP—keeping time for a body that's still fighting.
He lies motionless, chest rising and falling slowly. Tubes everywhere. Bruises darker in the harsh light.
I step closer. "Hey," I whisper. "You made it."
No response.
I pull a chair closer—SCRAPE—and sit, taking his hand carefully.
"You scared the shit out of me," I murmur. "Do you know that?"
His fingers twitch. Just barely.
I lean forward. "You don't get to leave. Not now. Not after all this."
My phone buzzes in my pocket—BZZZT.
I ignore it.
Then it buzzes again.
I sigh and check it.
Unknown Number.
He survived. That complicates things.
My breath catches.
I type back with shaking hands. Leave us alone.
The reply comes instantly.
You still think this is about him.
A chill crawls up my spine.
I lock the phone and slip it away, heart racing—THUD THUD THUD.
Serafin stirs slightly, a low sound escaping his throat—GROAN.
"I'm here," I say quickly, squeezing his hand. "You're safe."
His eyes flutter but don't open.
"I'm not going anywhere," I whisper. "No matter who tries to make me."
Outside, the sun fully breaks over the horizon, light spilling into the room. A new day.
But standing there, listening to the machines breathe for him, I know one thing with absolute certainty—
Surviving was only the beginning.