Sirens screamed outside Montrary Soul Hospital, but inside the ER the sound was worse. Bodies slammed against gurneys, nurses cursed over the intercoms, and someone in the waiting room was literally breathing fire onto the wall.
The doors hissed open, and Donna G walked in.
No white coat, no pretty jewelry. Just black scrubs, her chain tucked under, and a pair of Jordans splattered with someone else's blood.
"Move the hell out the way," she barked, stepping past an intern who froze at the sight of a two-headed alien oozing green sludge. "This ain't no zoo tour. Grab the suction or get off my floor."
The intern flinched. Donna didn't wait. She slammed a gloved hand down on the alien's chest, yelling to a nurse: "Vitals!"
"Slipping fast—"
"Then keep 'em from slipping! Don't tell me problems, tell me solutions."
Her voice cut through the chaos like a blade. The ER bent to her rhythm, doctors and nurses snapping into line. The patient's second head coughed, spraying bile across the floor. Donna didn't blink. She'd seen worse in the Bronx before she ever set foot in this multiverse madhouse.
Two stretchers collided at the doors, sirens still howling outside. One carried a half-cyborg with sparks flickering from his chest. The other, a gangbanger with horns curling out his forehead, chest caved in like a broken drum. Both crews shouted for attention.
"Line them up," Donna said, already walking toward the mess. "Triage don't play favorites. Metal boy first—at least his parts might still warranty."
The cyborg convulsed, one arm twitching violently. A young surgeon reached for the lead.
"Move," Donna snapped, stepping in without hesitation. She shoved the surgeon aside, grabbed the sparking wires with her bare gloved hands, and jammed a clamp onto the breach. Sparks exploded, singeing her sleeve, but the cyborg's chest lights steadied.
"See? Not hard." She dropped the clamp onto the tray. "Next time, don't just stare like a deer on crack."
The surgeon's face went red. The nurses around him tried not to laugh.
Beyond the chaos, the hospital's real heartbeat throbbed: gossip.
Two nurses whispered near the vending machines, glancing at Donna as she stalked past.
"She only got this job 'cause she got dirt on the board," one muttered.
"Nah, she's just crazy enough to run this place," the other said.
"Crazy? More like hood royalty. You saw how she punked Dr. Reyes last week? Man hasn't shown his face in the cafeteria since."
Donna ignored them. Let them talk. Words didn't save lives—she did.
An alarm screamed. Bed nine.
She stalked in to find a cocky surgeon, sleeves rolled up, trying to show off in front of a cluster of interns. The patient on the table—human, female, maybe twenty—was bleeding out while he fumbled with the sutures.
"You trying to make her uglier than death?" Donna said, stepping beside him.
"I got this," he snapped back.
"Yeah? Looks like you got incompetence." She shoved his hand aside, slid her own needle in, and stitched like she was born with steel in her fingers. In less than a minute, the bleeding slowed, the monitors steadied, and the interns stared like she'd just pulled off magic.
Donna dropped the needle on the tray with a clatter. "This ain't a show. It's survival. If you want applause, hit Broadway."
The surgeon clenched his jaw, but said nothing. He wouldn't. Not against her.
The shift dragged on—blood, sweat, curses, hookups in stairwells, stolen pills slipping into nurses' pockets when no one looked. Montrary Soul was a circus, and Donna was the only ringmaster who mattered.
But then came the patient that made her pause.
Male, maybe mid-thirties. Burn marks all over his torso, deep and precise. Not fire, not acid. Something cleaner. Surgical, almost. His skin glowed faintly beneath the charred flesh, veins like lightning under glass.
Donna froze for half a breath. Those burns… she knew them. Knew the pattern, the weapon.
"Dr. G?" a nurse asked. "You okay?"
Donna blinked, mask snapping back on. "Yeah. Scalpel."
She cut in. The man groaned, eyes flickering open. For a split second his gaze locked on hers, and something in it twisted her gut.
"You…" he rasped, lips cracked, blood bubbling. "You know… you know what this is…"
Donna stitched faster, ignoring him. "Don't talk. Save your strength."
His hand jerked weakly, clutching her wrist. His nails dug in. "Ghost," he whispered, just for her.
Her blood ran cold.
The monitor flatlined.
Donna let go, stepping back. "Call it," she said flatly.
The nurse stammered, "But—"
"Time of death: 11:47. Bag him. Move on."
She stripped off her gloves, hands steady now, voice steady. But inside, something cracked.
Later, when the ER calmed and bodies were wheeled away, Donna slipped into the stairwell. The walls hummed with the building's energy, but for once it was quiet.
She leaned back against the concrete, eyes closed, replaying the word in her head.
Ghost.
She hadn't heard that name in years. Not since she ran. Not since she stole her way out of the life that was supposed to own her forever.
Her hand trembled before she clenched it into a fist. No one could see weakness. Not here.
The stairwell door slammed open, a nurse stepping through, startled to see her. "Dr. G, you—"
Donna opened her eyes, mask snapping back into place. The hood doctor. The one who didn't give a fuck.
"What?" she asked.
"Uh, they need you back in Trauma Two."
"Then why you standing here? Move your ass."
She shoved past, heading back into the noise, leaving the fear behind in the dark stairwell where no one would ever find it.