The room exploded into noise.Monitors wailed. Metal slammed. Voices overlapped until it was just sound and motion.
"V-tach!" someone yelled.
Rachel moved before she could think. Instinct. Training. Rage.
"Charge to two hundred!"
The paddles hummed, heavy in her hands. Ethan Connors—barely human under the tubes and blood—lay there with his eyes half-open, pupils blown. For a heartbeat she saw him how he used to be: sun in his hair, bare feet on barn boards, another woman's lipstick smeared across his throat.
"Clear!"
Shock.Body jerk.Thud.Flatline.
Again.
"Three hundred. Clear!"
She pressed the trigger. The jolt cracked through the air.
Beep.Beep.Beep.
A rhythm. Weak but there.
The entire trauma bay breathed again.
"Line in the right arm," she snapped. "One unit O-neg. Call Neuro now."
The intern stammered. "You're taking him up yourself?"
"Yeah." She stripped off the gloves, the snap echoing. "He doesn't have time for hospital politics."
Anthony slid beside her, already pushing the gurney. "You good?"
Rachel ignored the question. "Keep the bag going. Don't let him dip."
Someone called from the doorway, "Dr. Maren! Any ID?"
She grabbed the wallet off the counter. Empty sleeve. No emergency contact. Nothing.
"Nothing," she said.
A resident started, "Should we—"
"No." Her voice was ice. "It's on me."
They burst through the hall. Orderlies jumped out of the way. Wheels screamed on tile.
"Vitals?"
"Dropping again!"
"Then push fluids and move faster."
The elevator doors opened like a mouth swallowing them whole.Fluorescent light washed everything sterile and unreal.
Anthony's hand brushed hers on the rail. "Who is he?"
She didn't look up. "No one who deserves saving."
Silence. Only the rhythmic hiss of oxygen.
He gave a low whistle. "That bad?"
"Worse."
Ding.The doors opened onto the OR floor.
A team waited—scrubs, masks, bright eyes behind shields.
Rachel barked orders as they transferred Ethan to the table. "Let's go—monitor leads, O₂, gown up, get anesthesia here yesterday."
The anesthetist appeared, eyes wide. "We're still waiting on consent!"
Rachel glared. "He's unconscious. You have my consent. Prep him."
The nurse passed her fresh gloves; she snapped them on like armor.
"BP's unstable," Anthony warned.
"Keep pressure. If he tanks, I'll open right here."
He blinked. "On the table? No sterile field?"
"I don't care. We lose him, he's done."
Ethan groaned, low, raw, somewhere between pain and memory.
Rachel froze. Her name slipped from his lips, slurred and broken. "Rach—"
Her stomach twisted.
"Intubate now," she ordered, voice flat. "Before he tries to talk."
The tube slid home, machines taking over his breathing.
She forced her focus to the vitals—numbers she could control. Numbers that didn't lie.
"Pressure climbing," Anthony said. "Heart rate steady."
"Good. Let's keep it that way."
But her pulse kept sprinting.
The scrub nurse whispered, "Doctor, Neuro's on their way."
Rachel nodded, staring at the man she used to love. "Tell them to hurry."
Behind her, Anthony murmured, "You sure about this?"
"No."
Then, louder: "Scalpel."
The nurse froze. "You're starting? Keller's not here yet."
"I'm not waiting for him. I'm in."
Rachel positioned herself over Ethan, eyes hard, jaw locked.The OR lights flared white across his ruined face.
The room exploded into noise.Monitors wailed. Metal slammed. Voices overlapped until it was just sound and motion.
"V-tach!" someone shouted.
I didn't think—I moved. Instinct. Training. Rage.
"Charge to two hundred!"
The paddles hummed, heavy in my hands. Ethan Connors—barely human under the tubes and blood—lay there with his eyes half-open, pupils blown. For a heartbeat, I saw him as he used to be: sun in his hair, bare feet on barn boards, another woman's lipstick smeared across his throat.
"Clear!"
Shock.Body jerk.Thud.Flatline.
Again.
"Three hundred. Clear!"
I pressed the trigger. The jolt cracked through the air.
Beep.Beep.Beep.
A rhythm. Weak, but there.
The entire trauma bay breathed again.
"Line in the right arm," I snapped. "One unit O-neg. Call Neuro now."
The intern stammered. "You're taking him up yourself?"
"Yeah." I stripped off the gloves, the snap echoing. "He doesn't have time for hospital politics."
Anthony slid beside me, already pushing the gurney. "You good?"
I ignored the question. "Keep the bag going. Don't let him dip."
Someone called from the doorway, "Dr. Maren! Any ID?"
I grabbed the wallet off the counter. Empty sleeve. No emergency contact. Nothing.
"Nothing," I said.
A resident started, "Should we—"
"No." My voice was ice. "It's on me."
We burst through the hall. Orderlies jumped out of the way. Wheels screamed on tile.
"Vitals?" I demanded.
"Dropping again!"
"Then push fluids and move faster!"
The elevator doors opened like a mouth swallowing us whole.Fluorescent light washed everything sterile and unreal.
Anthony's hand brushed mine on the rail. "Who is he?"
I didn't look up. "No one who deserves saving."
Silence. Only the rhythmic hiss of oxygen.
He gave a low whistle. "That bad?"
"Worse."
Ding.The doors opened onto the OR floor.
A team waited—scrubs, masks, bright eyes behind shields.
I barked orders as they transferred Ethan to the table. "Let's go—monitor leads, O₂, gown up, get anesthesia here yesterday."
The anesthetist appeared, eyes wide. "We're still waiting on consent!"
I glared. "He's unconscious. You have my consent. Prep him."
A nurse passed me fresh gloves; I snapped them on like armor.
"BP's unstable," Anthony warned.
"Keep pressure. If he tanks, I'll open right here."
He blinked. "On the table? No sterile field?"
"I don't care. We lose him, he's done."
Ethan groaned, low, raw, somewhere between pain and memory.
My stomach twisted. His voice—broken, familiar—slipped out of him like a ghost."Rach—"
For one wild second, I froze.
"Intubate now," I ordered, voice flat.
The tube slid home, machines taking over his breathing.
I focused on the vitals—numbers I could control. Numbers that didn't lie.
"Pressure climbing," Anthony said. "Heart rate steady."
"Good. Let's keep it that way."
But my pulse kept sprinting.
The scrub nurse whispered, "Doctor, Neuro's on their way."
"Tell them to hurry," I said, staring at the man I used to love.
Behind me, Anthony murmured, "You sure about this?"
"No."Then, louder: "Scalpel."
The nurse froze. "You're starting? Keller's not here yet."
"I'm not waiting for him. I'm in."
I positioned myself over Ethan, jaw locked, eyes hard.The OR lights flared white across his ruined face.
"Time of incision—"
The monitor screamed.One piercing, endless note.
Flatline.
"Dammit! Start compressions!"
Anthony was already on it, counting under his breath. "One, two, three, four—"
My chest ached from adrenaline, my throat raw. "Charge again. Two hundred."
The paddles slammed down.
Shock.Nothing.
"Three hundred!"
I hit him again.
Beep.Beep.Silence.
"Come on, Ethan. You don't get to die now."
Another shock.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"Sinus rhythm!" someone shouted.
Relief ripped through me so fast I almost laughed. Almost.
I sagged against the table, breath hitching. "Stabilize him. Keep him sedated."
The nurses scattered into motion.
I stepped back, ripping off my cap, sweat dripping down my neck.
Anthony touched my arm. "You okay?"
I looked down at Ethan—the faint rise of his chest under the sheet. "He's alive."
"That wasn't the question."
I gave a thin smile. "Then ask a better one."
The surgical lights buzzed overhead like hornets.
"Get him to ICU," I said, voice steady again. "He flatlined once—I'm not giving him a second chance."
As the team rolled the gurney out, the hallway lights strobed across his face—alive, unconscious, a ghost revived.
I followed a few steps, then stopped at the threshold.
My reflection stared back from the glass panel: blood on my gown, mascara streaked, eyes older than I remembered.
"Stupid," I muttered. "Always did live dangerously."
The automatic doors closed between us.
Outside, the alarm still echoed in my head—that long, merciless tone that sounds like forever.
And then—
Silence.
What the hell did I just do?