The ER doors slammed open like the gates of hell, and the heat rolled in with the gurney.
"Clear the hallway!" the EMT barked, sweat dripping down his forehead. "He's burning through restraints!"
On the stretcher thrashed a man—human-shaped, but his veins glowed molten red under his skin, light searing through flesh like cracks in lava rock. His wrists were strapped down with steel cuffs already warping under the heat. Blood seeped from his side, dripping onto the floor where it hissed and smoked.
The smell hit first—iron and ash, sharp enough to claw the throat. Nurses stumbled back, eyes wide, as the gurney skidded into Trauma One.
"Get me a trauma kit!" Maya G snapped, already pulling on gloves.
"Doctor—" a nurse stammered, "his blood—it—"
"Gloves up, gowns up, shut the fuck up," Maya cut her off. "This ain't church. You don't get to pray for courage; you put your hands in the fire and deal with it."
The nurses scrambled for extra layers, fumbling with double gloves and face shields.
At the foot of the bed, two familiar voices rose.
"I'm not going near him—" one nurse snapped.
"You're on rotation, bitch, it's your turn!" the other shot back.
Maya's head whipped around. The same two from last shift. The stairwell fighters.
"You two really wanna throw hands right now?" Her voice sliced through the panic. "While he's cooking alive on my bed? I swear, I'll let him bleed on you both and watch if it means shutting you up."
Silence. They froze. Maya turned back to the patient.
The man screamed, body arching against the restraints, and a spray of blood splattered across the wall—smoking, bubbling, eating into the paint. One nurse cried out, clutching her arm where a drop had landed, blistering her skin through the gown.
"Back!" Reyes's voice thundered as he shoved through the crowd. Slick hair perfect, jaw set like he was auditioning for a billboard. He snatched up a pair of tongs, trying to look like the savior of the night. "I'll handle this—"
Maya stepped between him and the bed, eyes sharp. "You lay one finger on him and I'll cauterize your dick shut. Fall back, Reyes."
The room went still. A few nurses snorted into their masks.
Reyes's face reddened. "You can't—"
"I can," Maya cut him off. "And I just did. Now stand there like a pretty boy and don't get anyone else killed."
The patient thrashed harder, the heat rising. The monitors flickered, struggling to track a body that wasn't playing by physics.
Maya barked orders. "Saline drip, insulated tubing, clamp that artery before it sprays again—"
The saline boiled in the line. Steam puffed up into the nurse's face shield.
"Fuck!" the nurse gasped.
Maya cursed under her breath. This wasn't medicine. This was playing chicken with a volcano.
She grabbed forceps, moving fast, but every time she touched his skin, the instruments scorched black.
One wrong move and the whole team would be in burn unit.
"Maya…" one nurse whispered, voice trembling. "Maybe we should—"
"What?" Maya snapped. "Let him fry? That's not how this floor works."
"But—" the nurse's voice broke, glancing at her blistered arm. "How many of us get hurt before it's enough?"
The question hung heavy, even over the monitor's wild beeping.
Reyes seized the moment, his voice oily. "She doesn't care about you. You're disposable to her. Look at him—he's not even human anymore. Why risk yourselves for that?"
The staff hesitated. Maya felt it—the split second of doubt, the crack in her command.
She slammed the forceps down on the tray, sparks flying as they hissed against metal. "Shut the fuck up, Reyes. Every bastard that rolls through those doors is mine until I say otherwise. You don't get to pick who lives. I do."
Her words cut deep, steadying the room. Some of the nurses straightened, grit snapping back into their faces.
Maya leaned over the patient, ignoring the heat clawing at her skin through the gloves. She pressed hard on the wound, trying to slow the blood that burned like acid.
The man's eyes shot open. White fire glowed in them, pupils thin slits of light. His lips cracked into a bloody smile.
"You…" His voice was smoke and gravel. "You're the Ghost."
Maya froze, hand still buried in his side. Around them, staff muttered nervously.
"Doctor, what did he—"
"Shut it!" Maya barked.
The man coughed, spraying sparks of blood onto her gown. "They know where you are… already inside… you can't trust—"
His voice cut off as his body arched. The monitors wailed.
"Push epi!" Maya ordered.
A nurse jammed the syringe, but the fluid evaporated before it hit the vein. The body convulsed, glowing brighter, until the whole room was drenched in heat and light.
Then the monitor flatlined.
"No," Maya muttered, grabbing the paddles. She adjusted the voltage on instinct, slammed them down—nothing. Slammed again—still nothing.
The room stank of ozone, of burnt flesh.
"Time of death?" a nurse whispered.
Maya's hands shook once, then steadied. "Not yet." She pressed down again, sparks flying. "Come on, you son of a bitch—"
The man's body jerked… then stilled. The monitor screamed a flat tone.
Maya stared at it, chest heaving.
"Call it," Reyes said softly, almost smug.
Her jaw tightened. For a long beat she didn't move. Then she stepped back, ripped off her gloves, and threw them in the bin.
"Time of death: 02:13." Her voice was stone.
The room sagged with relief, with defeat. Nurses lowered their instruments, eyes tired, some angry.
Maya turned away, but something nagged at her gut. She glanced at the tray. Forceps, gauze, paddles…
Her clamp was gone.
Her eyes snapped to the hallway beyond the glass.
And there he was. The janitor. Standing just outside the trauma bay, mop in one hand, the missing clamp twirling in the other. His smile was small, sharp, knowing.
Maya's blood ran cold.
She shoved the door open, heat still clinging to her scrubs, and stormed into the hall. "Hey!"
The janitor's smile didn't fade. He lifted the clamp like a toast. "I told you, Doc. I clean up everything."
Then he turned the corner and vanished.
Maya stood frozen, the chaos of the ER still roaring behind her. For the first time, the choice felt bigger than one patient, bigger than one floor.
Save lives… or protect her people.
The Ghost in her knew the answer. The doctor in her refused it.
And somewhere in between, she realized—Montrary Soul Hospital wasn't hers anymore.
It was theirs.
The CIA was already inside.