The ambulance rattles as it hits a pothole—THUD—and my body jerks despite the straps holding me in place. The interior hums with movement: the engine's low growl—VRRRR—the steady electronic pulse of the monitor—BEEP… BEEP…—and Serafin's uneven breathing—HNNG… HAAH—each sound layering on top of the other until my head feels like it's going to split.
The paramedic nearest his head adjusts a dial—CLICK CLICK.
"Blood pressure's dipping," he mutters.
My heart jumps. "What does that mean?"
"It means we're compensating," the second paramedic says, not looking at me. "For now."
"For now?" I echo.
Serafin shifts slightly, a low groan slipping out—GROAN.
"Hey," I say quickly, leaning closer. "Easy. You're okay."
His eyelids flutter. "Liar," he murmurs faintly.
I huff a shaky breath. "Yeah. But I'm your liar."
The paramedic shoots me a look. "Try to keep him calm."
"I'm trying," I snap. "He's not exactly cooperative."
Serafin's fingers twitch, searching blindly until I grab his hand. His grip tightens weakly.
"Still here?" he asks, voice barely above the engine noise.
"Unfortunately for you," I say. "Yes."
He exhales. "Good."
The ambulance swerves suddenly—SCREEECH—and I instinctively brace myself.
"What the hell was that?" I ask.
"Traffic," the driver's voice crackles over the intercom. "We're rerouting."
The paramedic frowns. "That's not the planned route."
"Police instruction," the driver replies. "Hold tight."
I don't like that.
The city lights streak past the small rear windows—blurred whites and reds—WHOOSH—and my stomach knots tighter with every turn.
The radio crackles—STATIC—then the police officer's voice breaks through. "Unit Seven, confirm your location."
The driver responds. "Crossing Ninth and Mercer."
A pause. Too long.
"That's not correct," the officer says slowly. "You should be three blocks east."
The paramedics exchange a look.
My pulse spikes. "What does that mean?"
Before anyone can answer, the radio screeches—SHRRRRRK—a burst of static drowning everything out.
Then a different voice slips through.
Smooth. Calm.
Unfamiliar.
"You're off course."
Every hair on my arms stands up.
"Who is this?" the driver demands.
The voice chuckles softly. "Does it matter?"
The paramedic snaps, "Cut the feed."
"I wouldn't," the voice replies easily. "You'll want to hear this."
Serafin's grip tightens. "That's him," he whispers.
My chest tightens. "Who?"
"The one who doesn't stop," he rasps.
"Listen carefully," the voice continues. "You're transporting something that doesn't belong to you."
The driver swerves again—THUD THUD—heart racing. "We've got a compromised channel."
"No shit," I mutter.
The paramedic leans closer to Serafin, checking his pupils—CLICK of a penlight.
"His heart rate's spiking," he says sharply.
"Because someone's fucking with us," I snap.
The voice continues, unbothered. "This doesn't have to end badly."
I lean toward the radio. "You already crossed that line."
A pause.
Then: "Caoimhe."
My blood runs cold.
"You shouldn't be here," the voice says. "You always complicate things."
"I'm not going anywhere," I reply through clenched teeth.
"Neither is he," the voice counters. "Not the way you think."
The radio cuts out abruptly—CLICK—plunging the ambulance into a sudden, heavy silence broken only by the monitor's frantic rhythm—BEEP-BEEP… BEEP-BEEP.
"Fuck," the paramedic breathes. "Vitals are dropping fast."
"What do you mean dropping?" I demand.
"Heart rate's unstable," he says. "We need to stop and stabilize."
"We can't stop," the driver says. "We're exposed."
Serafin gasps—GASP—his body tensing.
"Serafin," I say urgently. "Hey, look at me."
His eyes flutter open, glassy. "Told you… shouldn't stay."
I squeeze his hand harder. "Shut up. Breathe."
"I'm serious," he whispers. "They won't let you walk away."
"I'm not asking permission."
The paramedic injects something into his IV—HISS—then watches the monitor intently.
"Come on," he mutters. "Come on."
Outside, sirens wail suddenly—WEE-OOO… WEE-OOO—too close, too loud.
The driver glances in the mirror. "We've got a vehicle tailing us."
My stomach drops. "Police?"
He shakes his head. "Unmarked."
The ambulance accelerates—VROOOOM—throwing me back against the wall.
Serafin cries out softly—HNNG—and I lean over him, shielding him instinctively.
"I'm here," I whisper. "I've got you."
The paramedic swears. "We're losing him."
"No," I say sharply. "You're not."
Another sharp turn—SCREEECH—and the lights flicker briefly.
The monitor stutters—BEEP… BEEP… FLAT——then resumes.
My heart slams so hard it hurts.
The radio crackles again—STATIC—then the same voice returns, quieter now.
"You should've disappeared when you had the chance."
I lean toward the speaker, voice shaking but firm. "You don't get to decide when I disappear."
A pause.
Then, almost amused: "We'll see."
The line goes dead.
The ambulance barrels forward into the darkening road, city lights thinning, the hum of the engine growing louder.
I press my forehead against Serafin's, eyes burning.
Whatever this is—
It's no longer a transfer.
It's a chase.