Sirens flood the tunnel—WEE-OOO… WEE-OOO—their sound bouncing violently off the concrete walls until it feels like my skull is going to split open. Red and blue lights flash through the narrow ambulance windows—FLASH… FLASH—painting Serafin's pale face in harsh, shifting colors.
"He's still got a pulse," Paramedic 1 says, almost disbelieving. "Weak, but present."
I clutch Serafin's hand tighter. "Don't let him slip. Please."
Boots pound against concrete outside—THUD THUD THUD—followed by shouted commands.
"Police! Step away from the vehicle!"
The driver cracks the front door open slightly—CREAK—then raises his hands. "Medical personnel only! Patient critical!"
A police officer appears at the rear doors, breathless but focused. "Ma'am, are you injured?"
"No," I say quickly. "But he is. He needs a hospital. Now."
The officer glances inside, taking in the scene—the monitors, the blood, Serafin barely breathing.
"We're securing the area," he says. "A secondary unit is en route."
"No," I snap. "You don't understand. He can't wait."
Another voice cuts in, calm and authoritative. "We've got it from here."
A tactical officer steps into view, dressed in dark gear that doesn't say help so much as control. His eyes flick to Serafin, then to me.
"We're transferring the patient," he says. "Different vehicle."
"Why?" I demand.
"For his safety," he replies smoothly.
My stomach knots. "That's what they said last time."
The officer narrows his eyes slightly. "Ma'am, please step aside."
"I'm not leaving him," I say flatly.
Paramedic 2 hesitates. "She's stabilizing him. Emotionally."
The tactical officer sighs. "This isn't a discussion."
Two more figures appear behind him, rolling in a different gurney—black, unmarked—RATTLE echoing ominously in the tunnel.
"What hospital is that going to?" I ask.
The officer doesn't answer directly. "A secure facility."
That word again.
"No," I say. "Absolutely not."
The police officer from earlier steps closer. "Caoimhe, listen to me. This unit isn't standard, but—"
"But what?" I cut in. "But they promise he won't disappear?"
The tactical officer's jaw tightens. "You're crossing a line."
"Funny," I reply bitterly. "That's exactly what the man who broke into this ambulance said."
That gets their attention.
"What man?" the police officer asks sharply.
"There was someone here," I say. "He knew my name. He wanted me."
The tactical officer's eyes flick away for half a second. Too fast.
"You didn't tell us this," the police officer snaps.
"We didn't have time," I shoot back. "We barely had seconds."
The monitor dips again—BEEP… BEEP…—and panic flares fresh in my chest.
"Enough," I say. "Either you take us to a real hospital, or you move out of the way."
The tactical officer gives a tight smile. "You're not in a position to make demands."
Before I can respond, Serafin's body tenses—HNNG—and a broken sound escapes his throat.
"Serafin," I whisper urgently. "I'm here. Stay with me."
His eyes flutter open, unfocused but searching. "Cao…?"
"I'm here," I repeat. "They're trying to move you again."
His fingers curl weakly. "Don't let them."
The tactical officer exhales sharply. "We're out of time."
He gestures, and suddenly hands are everywhere—RUSTLE, CLACK—disconnecting monitors, lifting Serafin's body.
"No!" I shout, stepping forward.
A gloved hand grips my arm firmly—GRIP—stopping me cold.
"Ma'am, stay back," a tactical officer orders.
I wrench my arm free. "Get your fucking hands off me!"
The police officer steps between us. "She goes with him."
The tactical officer turns slowly. "That wasn't authorized."
"Then authorize it," the officer snaps. "Or explain to Internal Affairs why a civilian witness vanished."
Silence stretches.
Finally, the tactical officer nods curtly. "Fine. But she stays under supervision."
I don't care. I just move.
They load Serafin onto the black gurney—THUMP—his head lolling dangerously until I rush forward to steady him.
"I've got you," I whisper, brushing his hair back. "I won't let go."
The new vehicle waits just beyond the tunnel—matte black, no markings, engine idling low—HUMMMMM.
This doesn't feel like rescue.
As they lift him inside—CLANG—I climb in after him without asking permission.
The doors close behind us—SLAM—cutting off the tunnel noise completely.
Inside, the lighting is dimmer. Quieter. Too controlled.
A medic I don't recognize checks Serafin's vitals—BEEP—then looks at me.
"He's unstable," she says. "But alive."
"Where are we going?" I ask.
She hesitates. "That information isn't shared."
My phone vibrates in my pocket—BZZZT—once.
I don't need to look to know who it's from.
The vehicle starts moving—VROOOOM—smooth, steady, nothing like the frantic speed from before.
I take Serafin's hand again, pressing my thumb into his pulse point, counting every fragile beat.
Outside, the tunnel disappears behind us.
And as the city lights fade into darkness, one truth settles in with chilling clarity—
We weren't rescued.
We were collected.