Medical Center. Emergency Room.
Adam was about to head off to find Matthew and the others when another ambulance screeched in.
Well, so much for that plan.
He figured Matthew, Lilly, and the crew had probably already left anyway.
"Dr. Duncan!"
A nurse called out from across the room.
"What's the situation?"
Adam hurried over, all business.
"12-year-old male, multiple gunshot wounds to the legs and abdomen. We rushed him here—IV drip's at max flow."
The paramedics wheeled the stretcher in, rattling off details as they went.
"Two liters of fluid in, but we can't get a pulse."
"Move fast—get him to Trauma Room 1!"
Adam jogged alongside, eyeing the kid's condition while barking orders.
"Prep O-negative blood! Hang the IV line!"
"Run a hemoglobin and hematocrit check!"
"Oh my God!"
A nurse darted into action, but when her peripheral vision caught the boy on the table, she couldn't hold back a gasp.
"Drive-by shooting?" another nurse muttered, half to herself.
"No!"
One of the paramedics, catching his breath after handing off the patient, shook his head. "Drug deal gone bad. Blacklist-style mess."
"But he's only 12?"
The nurse's voice cracked with disbelief.
"They found him with a 9mm submachine gun in one hand and a Ruger in the other."
The paramedic shrugged, then bolted off. In their line of work, every second counted—volume was the name of the game.
Adam overheard it all. Glancing at the boy's dark skin, he let out a quiet sigh in his head.
The welfare system here in the States? It's a wild ride.
You've seen it laid bare in shows like Shameless. Got some quirky condition—like agoraphobia or whatever—that keeps you from leaving the house? Get a doctor's note, and boom, you're on the dole. Live off that check without lifting a finger, no problem.
Then there's the kid thing. Have a baby, adopt a kid—doesn't matter—you get a monthly stipend. A real Shameless type could rack up enough kids to live pretty cushy off their welfare checks alone. Homeless folks? Charities keep them fed and clothed. Might not be gourmet, but they won't starve.
Those deadbeat parents? They just cash the welfare checks and barely glance at the kids. If the kids hustle and earn a buck young, guess who swoops in to snatch it for a night of fun? Dear old Dad.
Now, that's usually the old white guy playbook. But when it's a Black family? That's where the weirdness kicks in.
A normal Black family, even with a bunch of kids, doesn't qualify for squat. Unless it's a single-parent setup—and it's gotta be the mom raising them. Dad can't even fake leaving; there's folks who'll pop by unannounced to check. If they spot him, the checks dry up.
Emmm.
It's almost like the system's nudging Black guys to hit the streets and stay gone. "Don't worry, bro, we'll take care of your wife and kids."
But a single mom, even with welfare, still has to hustle a job to give her kids a decent shot. Meanwhile, those kids—left to fend for themselves—grow up running the streets. They might not bump into their dad, but they sure as hell meet his buddies: the uncles and cousins.
And what do those guys do? The kids follow suit. What's there to do on the streets, anyway?
It's a vicious cycle, locked tight. Rare as hell for a Black kid to break free from it.
The one Adam was trying to save right now? Clearly didn't make it out.
Twelve years old, packing a submachine gun and a Ruger. When's there room for a pencil and a book? Even if they wanted to hit the books, where's the cash for that?
Hard work takes years to pay off. Falling into the streets? That's just one gun away.
Most adults can't stick it out that long—let alone a kid.
All this churned in Adam's head, but his hands didn't stop. He was in full-on rescue mode. Stabilize the kid, then rush him to the OR. Sure, they could operate here, but the sterile setup and equipment? Nowhere near what the operating room offered. Still, for an ER, it made sense.
Outside the Trauma Room.
The ER had a new visitor.
"Hey, you got something going on?"
John Carter had just changed out of his scrubs, ready to head home and tackle some serious business: braised pig trotters! While signing out at the nurse's station, he noticed the newcomer and couldn't help but ask.
Not that he was nosy—he just wanted to lend a hand.
The visitor? A Black kid, maybe ten or so, rocking a red cap and a ratty, oversized sports jacket—probably scavenged from some adult. The thing was so bulky it practically dragged on the floor.
The kid was wandering around, peeking here and there, like he was looking for someone.
Carter saw him and figured he'd help out.
But the kid didn't seem to hear him, just kept scanning the place.
"You looking for your parents?"
Carter raised his voice a bit.
Still no answer. The kid tugged open a curtain between the main ward's beds, glanced in, then moved on.
"Hey!"
Carter jogged over and tapped the kid's shoulder.
Big mistake.
He froze.
Instead of a smile or a confused look, he was staring down the barrel of a gun.
The kid had whipped out a pistol from that ridiculous jacket, aiming it right at him.
Worse? The blank, emotionless stare on the boy's face. Pure, chilling indifference to life.
Carter didn't dare twitch.
He had zero doubt this kid would pull the trigger.
"Oh, God!"
"Move it, punk… ah!"
The kid dropped the act, waving the gun as he marched forward.
Anyone in his path? One flash of the barrel, and they either clammed up or flinched hard. Same deal either way—no one moved, no one even yelled.
The kid strutted through, checking trauma room after trauma room.
Finally, he hit Adam's.
"Who let you in—"
An ER nurse started to snap, then stopped dead.
The second the kid barged in, Adam's instincts kicked into overdrive—bullet time, courtesy of his reflexes.
One glance, and he clocked it: the kid was ready to shoot.
The gun was aimed at the patient on the table, sure, but Adam wasn't taking chances.
In that split second, he hurled the forceps in his hand with everything he had.
Under bullet time, the armed kid's finger was just brushing the trigger.
But Adam's amped-up throw? The forceps rocketed like a cannonball, smashing into the kid's gun arm.
" Ngh!"
A grunt slipped from the boy's mouth.
For a ten-year-old, the pain tolerance was unreal—his blank face barely flinched, just a slight brow twitch.
Didn't matter. The gun slipped from his grip, clattering to the floor as his hand spasmed. That arm? Smacked so hard it twisted—definitely broken.
Adam lunged from the table, grabbing the kid's other hand as he still tried to snatch the gun back.
His grip locked the boy down, strength overwhelming.
But those defiant, icy eyes stared back. Adam didn't hesitate— a precise chop to the neck, just enough force to knock him out cold.
"Call security."
Adam kicked the gun under the table and hustled back to the patient.
"Let's keep going."