The hospital doors slammed open.
Don Matteo stormed through them, Felix in his arms—limp, bloodied, his face half-covered in red.
Matteo's hair clung to his forehead, his clothes soaked, streaked with blood and rain.
But he didn't stop. He didn't even seem to notice the weight in his arms.
He just walked. Fast. Desperate.
"Help!" he barked, his voice echoing across the cold, sterile corridor. "I need a doctor—now!"
The nurses behind the counter froze for a heartbeat. Then they moved.
"Trolley! Now!"
One nurse ran ahead, her shoes squeaking on the tile.
Another rolled a gurney in from the hallway, her hands shaking as she approached the blood-covered man standing tall like a statue in the middle of the ER.
"Sir, we'll take him—"
"No." Matteo's voice was low. Firm. But his hands were trembling.
"We need to—"
"I said no." He stepped closer to the gurney, only then bending down—carefully, as though even the air might hurt Felix more.
He placed him onto the stretcher with a gentleness that didn't match the rage burning in his eyes.
Felix's hand slipped from his grip. Matteo caught it quickly.
"Don't let go," he whispered.
The nurse glanced at the blood trailing from Felix's hairline.
Her breath caught. "Head trauma. Get neurology on call. Let's move!"
They began rolling the stretcher down the hallway, Matteo walking beside them, never letting go of Felix's hand.
"Sir, you can't follow—"
He didn't even blink. "If you try to stop me, you'll have another emergency on your hands."
The nurse opened her mouth to argue—but one look into his eyes silenced her. She nodded.
Matteo stayed beside the bed as they pushed through swinging doors, weaving past nurses and startled patients.
Blood continued to drip from Felix's temple, leaving a crimson trail behind them.
One of the doctors met them mid-hall. "What happened?"
"Gunshot," the nurse said. "Glancing head wound, but we don't know if it fractured—"
"It did," Matteo said sharply, never taking his eyes off Felix. "It hit above the ear. Close."
"Vitals dropping," another nurse called out, adjusting the monitors. "We need imaging, stat."
"Sir, we need you to wait outside," the doctor tried again. "Let us do our job."
Matteo looked down at Felix—his pale face, the blood now crusting at his hairline, his body too still.
Then he let go.
Fingers unclenched.
Just enough.
And slowly, he stepped back.
But not far.
"I'll be right here," he murmured. "You hear me?" His voice cracked. "Right here."
The nurses pushed the stretcher into the emergency doors, and they snapped shut behind them—leaving Matteo alone in the corridor, breathless.
He stood there—blood on his collar, his knuckles bruised, his chest rising too fast.
His hands hung useless at his sides.
And for the first time that night—
He didn't know what to do next.
The hallway had gone still.
The moment those emergency doors swung shut, a hush fell over the world. Like the hospital itself held its breath.
Matteo didn't sit.
He stood just outside the operating room, back pressed against the cold wall, blood still on his sleeves.
His eyes were locked on the red "Surgery In Progress" light above the door, as if staring hard enough would make it flicker and vanish.
His jaw was clenched so tight it trembled.
Matteo didn't blink. His fists opened and closed like he was holding back an explosion.
Minutes passed. Or hours. Time had become useless.
A nurse walked by and paused, recognition flashing in her eyes, but she kept moving.
No one dared come close. Even the air seemed to shift around him—as if it, too, was afraid.
His shirt clung with dried blood, but rain still slid from his hair, tracing cold lines down his neck.
A small puddle had formed beneath him, the water from his boots mixing with the dark stains along the tiled floor.
Matteo finally moved.
He took a slow step forward, one hand rising to press against the door's glass.
His reflection stared back at him—wild-eyed, disheveled, pale beneath the bruises.
"I told you to stay behind," he whispered, the words barely a sound.
He turned away, suddenly unable to face his own image.
His feet carried him to the plastic bench nearby, but he didn't sit.
He paced instead—back and forth, four steps one way, four back—like a storm with no place to go.
Then he stopped.
Lowered himself onto the bench slowly, like his body had just remembered it could break too.
He placed his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands. For a long time, he said nothing. Did nothing. The silence pressed in from all sides.
Then—
A sound.
A breath. A curse. A sob?
No. Matteo didn't cry.
But his shoulders shook.
Just once.
He sat back, eyes red now, and leaned against the cold wall.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out Felix's phone. It was cracked from the fall.
The screen lit up—a smiling selfie of Felix from who-knows-when.
That dumb grin. That peace sign—two fingers up, like he was telling the world he'd be fine.
A promise Matteo knew he couldn't break.
Matteo stared at it for a long time.
Then turned it face-down.
His fingers tightened around it like a lifeline.
He didn't move after that.
Not even when a doctor finally stepped through the doors.
The door creaked open behind him.
Matteo didn't move at first.
He didn't need to look—he could feel the shift in the air.
The rustle of a white coat. The soft, tired steps of someone who had seen too much in one night.
"Mr Matteo?" the doctor said gently.
He stood. Slowly.
The doctor was a woman in her fifties, face lined with fatigue, a clipboard tucked beneath one arm.
Blood dotted her gloves—Felix's blood—and Matteo's eyes went straight to it.
She noticed. She took them off.
"He's stable," she began, voice steady, practiced. "The bullet grazed the skull—missed the brain by millimeters. We've stopped the bleeding. No major complications during the surgery."
Matteo's throat moved, but no sound came out.
The doctor exhaled softly. "There was a lot of swelling… we had to relieve pressure. The wound is clean now. He's breathing on his own."
Matteo blinked once. "So… he'll be okay?"
A pause.
"He's not waking up yet," she said carefully. "There's no sign of consciousness. No eye response. But the brain scans show activity. That's something."
"That's not an answer," Matteo said, voice low, rough.
"I know." She didn't flinch. "But it's all we have right now."
He turned his head slightly, staring past her like he could see through the walls and into the room beyond.
"Can I see him?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "He's in recovery. They're cleaning him up. You'll be allowed in shortly."
Matteo gave the faintest nod—just once—and looked down at his hands. They were shaking again.
"I've seen worse injuries," the doctor added. "And I've seen people come back from it. We just need to wait. And hope."
He didn't respond. Just pressed his palm against his mouth like he was holding something in—words or rage or grief, maybe all at once.
The doctor gave a quiet nod and stepped away.
Matteo stayed there, rooted to the floor, eyes fixed on the door where she disappeared.
A long moment passed.
He finally whispered, more to himself than anyone else:
"Don't leave me, not now. You hear me?"
Silence.
He swallowed, jaw clenched.
Then, slowly, he walked toward the hallway where they'd taken Felix.
His steps were heavy.
But he kept moving.