Graves stood in the garage with four on her team and a stretcher at her side, concrete throwing the strip-lights back in long, oily bands. The bay door was rolled to the dark; wind pushed diesel and wet iron under the tongue.
For a one-minute run she'd staged only the essentials—forced-air blanket humming on battery, bag-valve mask clipped to O₂, gauze and tape on the rail, trauma shears and a red bag at her boot. Control had the service elevator keyed and held; runners were down from lift to med; night security watched the lane on camera to keep it clean.
She checked her watch. Knuckles had called five minutes out. Four were gone.
Her radio cracked: "Control to garage—outer gate rolling." The team tightened without talk—Sam to airway, Deke on the rails, Jenna at the warmer, Baines posted at the elevator call. Graves took the head of the stretcher.
"We go to them. Announce your hands."
Tires chirped on the ramp; headlights skated off pillars; the black SUV dropped into the bay, nose dipping as brakes caught.
"On me," Graves said, and they drove the stretcher forward.
Knuckles was driving. Onyx shoved the front passenger door wide and came out hard, boots hitting concrete, breath sharp in the cold. He crossed to Graves in quick, uneven strides, shoulders wound tight, voice clipped but shaken. "Couple minutes back she quit—no breath, no pulse. They've been on her chest since." He swung past her and hauled the liftgate open.
In the cargo well Harper lay flat across the folded seats, tank top plastered dark against her chest, running shorts soaked through, bare legs streaked in blood that had dried and broken in lines down to her calves. Skin waxy under the strip-lights, cuts crosshatched her arms and shoulders, some still wet, some already crusted. Keir straddled her hips, knees locked, arms piston-hard at a steady count that jolted her frame with every compression. Brock knelt at her head, jaw thrust locked in, one hand bracing her temple, eyes fixed on the hollow at her throat. His cadence muttered low, numbers clipped, feeding tempo into Keir's hands like the rhythm itself might keep her anchored.
Graves leaned in, eyes catching the shirt drowned high on Harper's right side, dark and wet. Heat bled with it, the hemorrhage still active. "Sam, airway. Keir stays on until the turn. Deke takes chest the instant she lands. Jenna, you're on the blanket. We roll on my count."
Knuckles shifted in beside her, shoulders squared, gaze cutting past to Brock at the head. He didn't speak—just set his hands ready, waiting on Graves' call to lift.
They moved the way drilled work moves when nobody argues.
"One—two—now."
Keir drove three more compressions, then slid off Harper's hips fast, keeping a hand braced until Knuckles and Deke had her weight. Graves took shoulders, Knuckles and Deke the hips, and in a practiced drag they had her clear. Brock crawled out behind them, forced to let go, boots hitting concrete as the stretcher rocked.
Vinyl met Harper's back in a breath. Graves had the shears out before the frame steadied, cutting straight up the tank top and snapping the bra straps in two quick bites. Fabric fell wide. Her chest and stomach lay bare under the lights: crosshatch cuts over ribs and belly, breasts scored thin and red, two deeper wounds pulling focus — one high at the shoulder still leaking, another dark under the right ribs.
"Active bleeds — shoulder and flank," Graves called, steady. "Sam, pads high-right, low-left. Deke on chest the second they're set. Jenna, blanket with window."
Sam cracked the packaging, smacked the pads to skin. Mask sealing over Harper's mouth. O₂ hissed as Jenna squeezed the bag on his count, chest lifting shallow between compressions.
"Deke on." His palms landed center sternum; compressions resumed, cadence quick. Jenna flared the warmer over hips and shoulders, folding back high-right so Graves' palm could lock on the bleeding.
They pushed. Brock caught the rail, knuckles bone-white, eyes locked down the line of Harper's body. Knuckles muscled the frame from the near side, shoulder steadying the run. Graves kept her hand hard to the flank. Keir dropped to the far rail with Deke, trading numbers to keep rhythm true. Onyx shadowed close, jaw tight, silent.
The stretcher caught the paint line and ran. Concrete seams ticked under the wheels. Baines held the elevator; the doors yawned wide, the box swallowing them, heater roar rising in the close.
"Swap in two," Graves said, eyes on the roll of Deke's shoulders, not his face. "Sam — keep the seal. Small breaths."
"Twenty-nine, thirty—"
Keir slid in, hands locking down as Deke peeled off. Sam held the mask kiss-tight; Jenna squeezed two measured ventilations on his count.
The elevator doors yawned and they pushed through, still working, compressions rocking Harper's frame as the clean light spilled over them.
The elevator doors spilled them into the bay. Light snapped white overhead as they drove the stretcher to the dock. Brakes slammed; rails dropped.
"Lift, slide, transfer. On three."
Hands locked where they were supposed to. "One, two, three—" Harper's body shifted as one with the team, gliding from vinyl to the trauma bed without breaking cadence.
"Two big lines — IV and IO, now," Graves said.
Deke was already at the arm, his fingers running fast along the inside of Harper's elbow. Veins should've been easy — she was young, wiry — but shock had collapsed them to thread. He slid the catheter anyway, saw the flash, and drove it home. "Line's up," he muttered. A pressure cuff hugged the bag tight, forcing fluid in, the warmer pushing heat down the tube.
Baines was kneeling at the shin. No hunt, no wasted seconds. He pressed the IO needle against bone, felt for the flat just below the knee, then drove it through with a sharp twist. A tiny give told him he was in. He flushed saline — no swelling, no leak. "Leg's clean."
Graves kept her hand locked on the flank bleed, watching both sites in her periphery. Two lines — one vein, one bone. Enough to slam fluids, meds, whatever it took to drag Harper back.
Sam slid into position at her head as Graves snapped the order. "Tube her. Suction first."
Keir kept compressions running, the jolts rocking Harper's frame. Sam swept the Yankauer deep, pulling dark blood and clots from her throat — not from the mouth itself, but what she'd swallowed and aspirated. Each squeeze filled the canister fast, metallic reek sharp in the air. "Airway's dirty," he muttered.
He lifted the laryngoscope and went in. The blade swept tongue and teeth aside, the view swimming red. Graves leaned close to catch his line of sight. "Find the cords."
Between compressions a flash of pale cartilage showed — just enough. Sam drove the tube, stylet stiff, slid past, pulled steel free. Bag on, seal tight. Jenna squeezed once, twice. Chest lifted; oxygen hissed through.
Graves kept her hand hard to the flank bleed but her voice carried clear. "Good tube. We're secure."
"Expose the pelvis," Graves said. Jenna ran the shears from cuff to hip in one long cut; belt and button went with it. The waistband peeled back, shorts stripped free so the right flank and lower abdomen were clear. Graves kept her palm locked where she'd already been holding pressure, blood still seeping under her hand. Baines removed the shoes and bagged them; Sam lifted the blanket edge back in place to keep the heat tight.
"Pads reading," Sam said, eyes on the screen. "Monitor up."
Graves didn't look up. "If she flips to VF, we shock. PEA means keep squeezing and fix the bleed."
"Pause for rhythm in three—two—now."
Hands lifted. The thump of compressions cut off. The room held still except for the hiss of O₂. The monitor traced green with order; Graves' fingers pressed hard into the carotid, met nothing.
"PEA. Resume."
Keir slammed back onto the chest, arms locked, cadence hammering. Deke slid aside, sweat shining at his temples. Sam steadied the tube at Harper's mouth, eyes flicking to her chest for symmetry with each squeeze. Jenna worked the bag-valve in time, chest rising shallow under the force.
"Epi one milligram IV," Graves called. Deke grabbed the syringe, snapped the cap, and pushed hard into the line. The cuff hugged the bag, forcing fluid wide into the vein.
"Warm saline wide open. Onyx—get Gunner now; donor kit and TXA." He was moving before she finished, boots pounding for the hall.
Graves' palm was still clamped to the flank bleed, her wrist aching with the pressure. She needed her hands back. She looked up.
"Knuckles. Here."
He was beside her in an instant. She caught his wrist, dragged his hand down onto the wound, and pressed until he felt the weight she wanted. "Hold it. Don't surf."
Blood welled through his fingers, hot and slick, but he didn't flinch. His shoulders squared, locking in like he was bracing a door.
The ultrasound probe kissed Graves' wrist; she took it without looking. "Next ten-count, I scan."
Keir's cadence stayed steady, chest rocking under his locked arms. Jenna squeezed two breaths in rhythm. Sam steadied the tube at Harper's mouth, eyes flicking from chest rise to monitor. Knuckles kept his weight anchored at the flank, pressure unrelenting, his free hand snapping out once to catch Brock's shoulder when he edged in too close.
Heat pooled slow under the blower.
Brock edged a half step toward Harper's head. Knuckles' free hand closed on his shoulder and kept him there.
"Pause—ten count, go."
Graves smeared gel and set the probe. The screen flickered gray, organ borders ghosting into view. "Pericardial clear." She slid right; a black slick widened at the liver edge, pooling dark in the grain. "She's leaking. Resume."
Keir dropped back on, arms piston-locked.
"Two minutes," Baines called from the clock.
"Swap—Deke in." Keir slid aside clean, Deke taking his place, rhythm hammering without pause.
Sam steadied the tube at Harper's mouth, eyes on chest rise as Jenna squeezed air in time.
Brock's hands opened and closed empty at the rail; his mouth shaped a prayer that never reached sound.
Graves swept Harper fast with palm and eyes. Back of the head firm, no soft give, no step. Pupils caught the light and gave it back, equal, reactive — but the rims were raw, tears running, the whites bloodshot.
A knot swelled under the hair at the base of the skull, tender beneath her fingers.
The shallow stab high at the shoulder oozed slow; Baines squared it with tape. Thin lacerations covered her — chest, belly, arms, sides, hips, legs, even the scalp behind her ear — a scatter of shallow, fresh cuts over almost every span of skin.
"All other cuts are surface," Graves said. "Clean and dress later. Eyes flagged for flush — numbing drops first. Treat the head like it's hurt until I scan."
Onyx burst back through the doorway with Gunner in tow, coat half on. Gunner's eyes went wide at the sight on the bed.
"What do you need?" he asked.
"Chair. Left arm. Make a fist," Graves said, not looking up.
Baines dragged a stool under him, tourniquet on fast. He cracked the CPD bag, snapped the donor set together, and slid the needle home. Gunner clenched the rubber ball on Baines' count, jaw locked, gaze fixed on Harper.
"O low-titer confirmed," Baines said.
The bag budded red, filling hard.
"Stop the clear on the left. Blood on the left line—pressure cuff it," Graves called. "Leg stays for meds."
"Fresh whole blood to Harper, filter inline. TXA now—through the leg."
Warm color climbed the tubing into Harper's arm while Gunner kept squeezing, hand steady on the ball.
"Pause—rhythm and pulse."
Hands lifted off the chest. The pounding thump of compressions cut away and the room went tight with silence but for the hiss of O₂.
The screen traced steady green, organized for the first time all night. Graves pressed two fingers deep into the side of Harper's neck. For a breath she felt nothing — then a faint push, thin and stubborn against her touch.
"Carotid present. ROSC." Her voice was flat, not letting the room breathe with her. "No compressions. Keep assisting breaths. Push blood. Don't stop moving it."
Brock's knuckles flexed white on the rail. Knuckles' hand held steady at the flank, blood still seeping warm under him.
"BP?" Graves said.
"Seventy-eight… seventy-two… dropping," Baines answered. The heart still raced on the screen, but the numbers wouldn't stick.
"Repeat right upper," she said. Probe down—black water by the liver, wider than before. Under her hand the belly had gone tight, hard against the probe.
"It's building," Graves said. "She won't hold here. We cut."
"OR's hot," Baines answered.
"Good. Secure everything. Keep the tube tight. Ten a minute—small breaths," Graves said.
Sam checked the tube at her mouth, tape snug, chest rising clean under Jenna's squeeze. Knuckles' weight stayed clamped at the flank, blood still seeping slow against him. The numbers on the monitor wobbled, then held.
"Keep the blood moving under pressure on the left. Leg line stays for meds. Second walker on standby if Gunner fades," Graves said. Her voice cut the room short.
"Listen up—we're moving. Sam, hold the tube. Jenna, bag her — ten a minute. Deke, take the flank from Knuckles. Lock it down. Once we're rolling, you're on the foot and steer. Baines—stay with Gunner; fill and send bags the second they're ready."
Deke pressed in, gloved hand replacing Knuckles', weight steady over the wound. Blood welled, but the pressure held. Knuckles pulled back, slick to the wrist, and wiped his hand on his shirt without looking away from Harper.
Graves' eyes found the rest. "Keir—out. Onyx—clear the hall. Knuckles, get Brock out of my doorway. Anyone not medicine, out until I say."
Brock broke the line anyway — one fast step to Harper's head. His hand brushed her temple as he bent, the word a breath against her hairline. "I'm here."
"Brock," Knuckles warned.
"Out," Graves said, firmer now, never looking away from the wound.
Onyx caught his elbow, Knuckles the other side; together they hauled him back cleanly, his weight resisting for half a breath before he let them take him. The stretcher pivoted, unbroken.
"Let's go," Graves said.
The wheels rolled. The corridor was twenty paces of hard light and cold air; the OR waited open, bright with mean lamps, antiseptic sharp in the air.
"In and park. Lock," she said at the threshold, and the doors took them.
The door thudded and the corridor went hard with light and tile. Knuckles kept a fist in Brock's jacket while Onyx stood by the handle like a lock. Brock shoved once at the seam—metal rattled—then pressed his forehead to the frame, breath ragged.
Harper's blood had dried tacky on his forearms, wet on his cuffs, streaked high across his cheek where he'd wiped without thinking. "She didn't wake up," he said, voice gone thin. "She went down in the car. There was so much—" His eyes slid to the smear along the baseboard where wheels had tracked red out of the bay. "She can't die in there."
Knuckles' grip held. "She's not gone. They've got her."
Keir stood off a few steps, covered the same way—wrists lacquered, shirt stuck to his ribs, knuckles rust-dark. Onyx pulled a towel from the linen cart and pressed it into his hands. "You did good," he said. "In the car. All the way. You kept her here. That matters."
Keir nodded once and started wiping, slow and careful, like the blood might jump if he hurried. He glanced at Brock, then at Knuckles; Onyx met Knuckles' eyes for a moment and looked away, something understood and put aside.
"Fresh towels," Onyx said, sliding another stack within reach. Brock scrubbed hard, smeared more than he cleaned, then glued his gaze to the wired window, hunting any slice of blue drape, any shoulder moving. Knuckles didn't let go of the jacket. "Let her work," he said, quiet, steady as a hand on a wheel.
Brock nodded without looking, jaw locked, and tapped his knuckles once on the hinge like a promise he meant to keep.
Knuckles shifted his grip on Brock's jacket, then dragged his free hand down a towel, blood streaking dark into the cloth. He looked past them. "Onyx. Keir. Go home. Shower. Eat something. Phones on."
He added, "Thank you," and meant it. His nod to Keir landed like a medal. "You kept her here."
Keir's throat worked once. He nodded back, stiff, like he didn't know what to do with the weight of it.
Onyx squeezed his shoulder, steady, then both of them glanced at Brock. He never turned from the wired glass.
They said nothing more. The stair door swung and took their shapes with it.
Brock's legs went first. Knuckles let the jacket go and Brock slid down the wall to the tile, back thumping the cinderblock, towel hanging loose from one hand. He folded over his knees for a breath, then lifted his head and fixed on the wired window, as if staring could hold a line steady on the other side.
The blood on him had stiffened, cracking at the joints, rust flaking onto the floor when his hands moved. His cuffs were still wet, cold against his wrists.
Knuckles stayed where he was, planted by the door like a post, giving him space and the only kind of company that didn't ask for words.
Gunner came out under Baines' hand a few moments later, gauze taped in the crook of his arm and a plastic cup sweating in his grip. He looked at the blood on Brock, then at the wired window. "She looked ripped apart," he said. "What happened?"
Knuckles kept it plain. "She was taken. Black Maw. We pulled her out."
Gunner's jaw went hard. "Figures."
Baines set a chair to his calves and eased him down. "Finish that. If your head goes light, say it. We may need another bag. Keep a hand on the gauze."
"Take it," Gunner said.
"Not all," Baines told him. "Stay upright."
Brock lifted his face, clocked the tape on Gunner's elbow, and said nothing. His eyes went back to the window like it might move for him. Knuckles held the handle and kept the hall quiet.
Minutes stacked in the corridor. The heater cycled. Blood on the towels dried stiff. Gunner's cup sweated a ring and then stopped. Baines passed twice with fresh units and a third time empty, eyes flat. Brock rose and sat and rose again, never far from the wired window.
The latch clicked. Brock was up before it finished. The door swung and Graves stepped through—cap damp, mask tugged under her chin, scrubs streaked at the sleeves, wrists striped raw from the scrub.
Brock's eyes went to her face, searching for anything—a crack, a shadow, some tilt of her mouth that would give the truth away before she spoke.
"She's alive," Graves said. "It's guarded."
Brock's hands closed and opened once, empty. His eyes clung to her face like he could drag the rest out by force.
"I opened her belly. The right side of her liver was torn." She shifted her weight off one foot, shoulders squared as if reciting. "I packed it tight and stitched what would hold."
Brock swallowed, throat working, fists braced against his knees.
"There's a temporary cover—film, suction, binder." Graves' gaze dropped briefly to her wrists, red and ridged from scrubbing, before lifting back.
Knuckles hadn't moved from the door. His eyes flicked once to Brock, then settled on Graves, steadying the air between them.
"Pressure's better with whole blood under the cuff," she went on. "Her head took a bad blow, but her pupils are even. There's swelling, so we treat it like injury until I can scan."
Brock's jaw flexed; he looked at the floor, then back to her mouth, waiting.
"She's on the ventilator and deeply sedated—quiet room, low light. Lungs may be bruised." Graves drew a breath that wasn't quite steady. "We'll keep her warm and steady. The first night is the hill."
Gunner sat forward, color a shade off. "You need more from me?"
"Not now. Sit. Juice. If you swim, say it."
Graves came back to Brock. "We don't have a scanner I can use while she's this soft. When her pressure holds, I'll risk it. Plan on days under—weeks if the lungs turn on us or the belly needs more work. If she makes it through the night, I'll open her in the morning to check the packs. If it's quiet, I close. If not, we go back in."
"Can I see her?"
"Yes," Graves said. "Wash to the elbows. Mask on. You and Knuckles only. Five minutes. Stand at her left shoulder. Hands off the tube and wires. Talk if you want—sound still gets in. She won't wake. If she coughs or twitches, that's reflex—step back and let us handle it."
Knuckles eased Brock off the wall and nudged the push-plate. The anteroom took them—stainless sink, foot pedal, a stack of blue masks and paper caps. Water kicked on. Knuckles scrubbed to the elbows in steady, practiced strokes; Brock attacked his hands like grit might come free if he worked hard enough, water stinging as old blood lifted from his skin. Soap, rinse, paper towels. Masks looped, caps tugged down.
Graves flicked her eyes over their nails, turned a palm here, a thumb there, then gave one nod and pushed the inner door with her shoulder. "Left side. Hands off the lines."
Warm air lifted the blanket in slow breaths. Low light. Ventilator sigh. Monitor writing green.
Harper lay under the forced-air cover; face slack, lashes sunk against her cheeks. Tape fixed the tube at her mouth; her lips were dry, corners reddened, condensation sliding in the clear line like breath that wasn't hers. Gauze padded swelling at the back of her head, hair matted dark around it.
The blanket hid everything below her shoulders, only the edge of collarbone pale against the fabric. Tubing threaded out from beneath the cover—one line pressed under a cuff, another draining red into a canister at the rail. The blanket rose and fell in time with the ventilator, its hum the only proof of motion.
"She's in soft restraints," Graves said. She lifted the blanket at Harper's right wrist, slid a finger under the foam cuff, and eased it one notch—the strap stayed tied quick to the rail. "They keep her from grabbing the tube if her hands twitch. Safety, not punishment. When she's steadier, I take them off. Hands off the tube and wires."
She turned Harper's hand slightly, palm in. The skin was slack, IV tape along the forearm, and the marks from earlier still clear—fresh cuts crossing her palm and wrist, some closed, some not. Graves angled the hand and set it where Brock could reach.
"Here. You can hold here."
Brock's breath caught when he saw the X carved into her palm. He angled his own hand, careful, sliding two fingers beneath her thumb so he wouldn't press the cuts. Her skin was warm under his touch, slack against his. The ventilator breathed; he matched his air to it. "Hey," he said near her temple. "I'm here."
Graves drew the blanket back into place, tucking it close so the heat wouldn't run.
Knuckles ghosted a hand past Brock's shoulder. His eyes cut once over Harper—face slack, tube taped at her mouth, gauze swallowing the back of her head, the blanket rising and falling like the motion belonged to someone else. For a second she didn't look like Harper at all, just a body held together by tape and machines. His jaw set hard, breath driving out through his nose. "Chair," he said, already sliding one from the wall. He set it tight to the left rail and nudged Brock down.
Brock fought the sit, legs locking, then gave an inch and folded, still crowding the bed, fingers tucked under Harper's thumb. He kept his mouth near her temple, words barely air.
The ventilator breathed. The cuff climbed and fell. A red thread crept along the suction hose.
Knuckles rested a palm on the chair back. Wetness stood at the corners of Brock's eyes, clung there, refused to fall. All the years—men lost, orders that sent people into the dark, calls that came back wrong—and Brock had never cracked. Not once. Not even then. And here it was now, quiet and raw, for her. For Harper. Her hand slack in his, her breath borrowed from the machine.
Something worked in Knuckles' throat before he got the words out. "You love her, don't you?"
Graves' eyes lifted at the line of his voice, held a moment, then went back to the monitor.
Brock didn't try to dodge. "Yeah," he said, voice cracking. "I do."
Knuckles' hand pressed firm to the chair back, voice low. "Then give her that. Not the fear in your chest — the steady. Let her hear normal. Coffee in the morning, a drive with the windows down, errands you'll bitch through together. A life she can step back into."
He leaned closer, steady as stone. "If you wobble, I haul you to the sink and we reset. Then you come back and hold even. Deal?"
Brock nodded once, then something in him slipped. His shoulders pulled in; the mask went damp at the edge. He tried to swallow it and couldn't. A sound came out anyway—small, rough—and he pressed his mouth to the paper like he could push it back down. His fingers stayed under Harper's thumb; they didn't tighten. He bowed his head and shook once, silent.
Knuckles' hand stayed on the chair. He leaned in just enough, voice pitched low. "This is why we don't keep prisoners."
It broke a catch of air out of Brock, half laugh, half sob. The wet finally spilled. He shook his head once, a choked smile under the mask. "Yeah," he said. "This is why we don't keep prisoners."
Graves glanced up, clocked the exchange, and adjusted him instead of moving him. She tore a peel-pack, slid a folded gauze into Brock's free hand without asking, and nudged a small bin to his ankle with her shoe. Then her eyes went back to the screen. The monitor held its line; the cuff cycled and landed; the ventilator sighed and settled. Warm air lifted the blanket, fell again.
Brock brushed a strand of hair off her cheek, careful of the tape and lines. His thumb lingered there a second, then fell away. "When you wake up, we can sit by the river with coffee every morning," he said, voice rough.
He glanced down, catching the gauze still in his hand, then let out a shaky breath. "I bought you coffee today—iced latte. It's still in the fridge for when you come home."
The gauze crumpled in his fist; a thin laugh broke through, wet at the edges. "And we can watch whatever you want on Netflix. Even if I think the show's stupid."
Knuckles' hand stayed on the chair back, steady anchor behind him. "That's it," he murmured. "Give her the life she knows."
Graves checked the binder edge, nudged the suction line so it didn't bite, and wrote a short note on the board. "Numbers are holding," she said, not for the room, for him. "You've got another minute."
Brock nodded. He leaned so his temple almost touched her hairline. For a moment nothing came—just the sound of the ventilator and his breath snagging against it. Then he forced the word out, rough. "Stay." His mouth worked once more before it caught. "Come back to me."
He didn't try for anything else. He just breathed with her and kept his hand where Graves had set it, like letting go too soon might take her with it.
Graves checked the board, glanced at the clock, and tilted her head toward the door. "That's time. We'll keep her warm and quiet. I'll come find you."
Knuckles touched Brock's shoulder; the chair scraped once. Brock stood, set his fingers down for one last second under her thumb, and let go.
─•────
By noon the following day, the briefing room carried the hush of a church after a funeral. They'd all showered, changed, done what they could to look functional, but the night was still in their faces. Brock looked the worst—eyes red-rimmed, shadows carved deep, like he hadn't even thought of closing his eyes. His shoulders slouched in the chair, hands knotted on the table, every line of him pulled thin. Kier didn't look much better; pale, jaw tight, restless energy still buzzing under his skin. Onyx looked worn but contained, posture coiled, tapping a finger once against his knee like a clock he couldn't quiet. Knuckles leaned back against the wall, arms folded, steady but heavy-eyed, every blink slow. Sam was the only one who passed for sharp—uniform clean, posture straight, calm written into him the way medicine required—but his eyes were rimmed red, too, betraying the hours.
The door pushed open and Vex came in without a coat, sleeves shoved to his forearms like he hadn't bothered with the rest. He dropped into the head chair, the leather breathing under him, and set a dead phone face-down by his elbow. For a moment he just sat, gaze moving the length of the table. Something flickered there—rattled deeper than he wanted to show—before it pressed flat.
"I was told Voss came in coding," he said. "That she's on a vent. That's all I've got. Fill in the rest."
Brock scrubbed a hand over his face, then set it flat on the table like he needed the anchor. "Harper signed herself out yesterday morning. Said she was going for a run in town." His eyes stayed down, voice rough. "Me and Knuckles were tied up all day. Didn't realize she hadn't come back until evening."
The silence stretched. Brock's jaw locked; he forced the next words through it. "That's when the video came. She was alive in it. Maw had her—already cutting on her." His fist closed once against the wood. "They dropped an address with it. Wanted me to bite. We clocked it false. Didn't take the bait."
Knuckles leaned forward, forearms on the table. "Cole and Price burned the signal down to the real site. Me and Brock rolled with Onyx and Kier. Basement in a row house—three Black Maw inside." He glanced at Onyx, then back to Vex. "We neutralized them. Got her down."
For a beat he didn't move, then his arms crossed tight. "She wasn't conscious when we reached her. Deteriorated fast in the Suburban. Went rigid, coded. Kier stayed on her chest the whole way until Graves had hands on her."
Vex leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping once against the dead phone at his elbow. His gaze moved between Brock and Knuckles, weighing the pieces. "So they snatched her off the street in daylight. Broadcast proof of life, baited you with a false site. You traced, breached, and found three men on her in a basement. She coded on the way back." His voice didn't lift or fall—just laid the sequence bare. "That's a line crossed."
His eyes cut down the table. "Sam. Medical rundown."
Sam sat straighter when Vex turned to him, palms flat on the table like he'd braced for this. "She came in VSA. No pulse, CPR active on arrival. We tubed her and got a rhythm back, but it was touch and go." His eyes flicked to Brock, then down again, as if weighing how much detail to give.
"The biggest concerns were a blow to the head—hard enough to swell—and a stab wound that hit the liver. Massive bleed, near-fatal." He shifted, fingers rubbing once at the edge of his cuff before stilling. "She's also carrying dozens of superficial lacerations, another stab by the collarbone…" A pause. "And there is evidence of sexual assault."
Brock's head snapped up, chair legs biting the floor. Knuckles' arms uncrossed, jaw locking hard, eyes cutting to Sam with a weight that pressed the air out of the room. Sam didn't flinch, but he paused, letting them take it.
"She needed several units of blood to get her pressure back. Graves went in last night and packed what she could. Harper made it through." His voice softened slightly, not much. "Graves is back in surgery now to reassess."
He pulled in a breath, exhaled slow. "She's heavily sedated. Still on the vent. Recovery's going to be long. But she's alive."
Vex's fingers tapped once on the table, then stilled. "This doesn't end with Harper. Maw pulling one of ours off the street—that's escalation. We can expect more aggression, not less." His eyes cut the line of faces. "From now on, nobody leaves these walls alone. Buddy system, no exceptions. Even for a walk down the block."
His gaze settled on Brock. "She needs a phone. Direct line. No gaps in communication, ever again."
He let the silence hold a beat before going on. "Tomorrow I sit down with Cole and Price. Maw made their move—we'll figure how to answer it. For now…" His eyes flicked back to Brock. "You kept your head. Didn't walk into a trap. That's the only reason we're talking about a recovery and not a funeral."
He turned his chin toward Kier. "You kept her heart moving in that truck. That's no small thing."
Then wider, sweeping the table. "All of you—fast thinking, teamwork under fire. Better she's on a vent than on a slab."
He leaned back in the chair, the air easing a fraction. "Take a couple days. Get tested, rest up, ease your nerves. We'll pick it up later."
─•────
The days stacked. The morning after, Graves took her back and repacked; sodden pads came out, new ones went in, a binder and a low hiss of suction laid across the cut. Fever bumped and broke, bumped again, then eased under antibiotics. Head CT showed no bleed, just a small contusion at the back of the skull; they treated the brain like it was sore and kept the room dim. Lungs sulked—wet sounds, oxygen numbers slow to rise—then began to listen to the vent. They kept her under and surfaced her only in short windows: lids lifting to her name, a thin squeeze on command, a cough when suction touched the back of her throat, then the fog lowered again.
Day Five, Graves went back and closed; the binder stayed, drains rode the edge, the hiss softened. Day Nine brought kinder blood gases. By Day Twelve they let the ventilator step back—she drifted, worked for it, and they nursed her back under full support rather than let the belly clench. The tube stayed in, sedation back on.
The dozens of cuts that had covered most of her body turned over with time: scabs fell, bruises yellowed, new pink skin showed through. Most had sealed and paled, the worst of them still tender but closed. Only the stab at her collarbone and the liver wound needed constant dressings.
Brock lived in the chair at her left rail. He paced his air to the hiss of the ventilator, to the rise under the blanket. He didn't circle the same comforts; he talked in new small pieces she could step into later—how he tightened the loose hinge on her locker, restitched the hanging strap on her coat, straightened the crooked photo in the hall; how the service elevator still hesitated on three, how the yard sounded at shift change, the dumb note taped to the window frame, the checklist he kept rewriting and actually crossing things off.
Knuckles hauled him to the sink when his eyes went glassy, shoved a sandwich in his hand, and stood him back in place. Onyx left coffee on the sill with a nod and slipped out again. Price ghosted in with camera grids and a charger, set them down, and disappeared. Vale came once in a hoodie, sat a minute on the heater, said nothing, and left quieter than she came.
Mason did two hours at the door most nights, boots planted like the frame belonged to him. Gunner stepped in once or twice, checked the line of bags, and pivoted out. Baines managed the flow—fielded messages, kept the crew updated, filtered who came through and when. He shooed visitors when he had to, let it slide when he didn't. Knuckles spoke for Brock when schedules came—no explanation given, just a shake of the head that held. Vex passed the hall once, spoke to Graves in a low line, and kept moving.
The morning of Day Fourteen came in quiet and dim on purpose. Graves took the head with Sam beside her; Jenna watched the pumps; Baines kept the clock. Brock held his usual chair at the left rail, two fingers under Harper's palm. The ventilator was in a gentle you-breathe-I-help mode. His thumb shifted once against her skin, not even a rub, just checking the warmth was still there.
"We're going to let her wake a little," Graves said. "Nobody crowds. Brock—stay right there. Keep your voice low. Breathe with her. Don't touch the tube or the wires. If her hand goes for it, guide it back flat to the sheet. If she coughs, let it happen." She tipped her chin to Jenna. "Ease it down."
Jenna thumbed the pump, sedation edging down drip by drip.
Nothing happened for a long half minute. The room breathed with the machine. Brock paced his air with the rise under the blanket and kept still at the left rail. A minute slid by—then Harper swallowed once; a small frown started between her brows.
"Good," Graves said, calm as a metronome. "Let it come."
Another minute and the first cough rode up the tube, harsh against plastic. The ventilator clicked and compensated, numbers jumping before settling again. Harper's fingers twitched, lifted, tried for her mouth. Brock caught her hand like he'd been told, pressed it flat, voice under the ventilator hiss. "I'm here."
Her lashes fluttered, settled, then lifted a fraction more. For the first time in two weeks, her eyes showed a slit of dark.
Sam slid the suction in smooth, cleared the rattle from her airway. Harper coughed hard around the tube, chest hitching once, then eased back against the rhythm.
"Harper," Graves said, even and close. "Open your eyes."
The lids climbed, slow and stubborn. They held.
"Good. Look at me."
Her gaze drifted, found Graves, then pulled sideways until it caught Brock. His hand clenched under hers, but he didn't move, didn't speak.
"Squeeze Brock's hand, Harper," Graves ordered.
The fingers under Brock's curled faintly, tremor-weak.
"Again."
The second curl was a fraction stronger, and the room let out a breath. Jenna's glance at the monitor confirmed it—air moving with the vent, numbers holding steady.
"Wiggle your toes," Graves said.
A shift under the blanket answered, small but there. Graves gave one nod, her voice still calm. "That's enough. Breathe easy. We're here."
Harper's throat worked; a rasp of air scraped past the tube, nothing more. Her eyes went wide. She tried again, chest tugging hard against the push of the ventilator.
Graves set a steady palm to her shoulder, leaning close. "Don't try to outrun it," she said, calm and certain. "It feels wrong, but let it carry you. The machine will breathe with you."
The monitor ticked higher—heart rate climbing. Harper's hand lifted, weak but urgent, reaching. Brock caught it, pressed it flat to the sheet, thumb anchoring her knuckles.
"Easy," Graves coached, near her ear. "In… and out. Follow us. Breathe with the machine, not against it." She rose and fell her own chest in time, metronome steady.
The room stilled, every eye on Harper while the panic flickered and fought behind hers.
Sam hovered at the tube; Jenna kept her thumb on the pump, eyes on the numbers. Harper stumbled through two uneven cycles, chest tugging too fast, then found the rhythm again. The line on the screen steadied, breaths in time with the machine.
"Look at me," Graves said, testing.
Harper's gaze lifted, caught hers, held.
"Good. You're with me." Graves gave it a beat, watching the chest rise clean, numbers holding steady, the faint flex of a cough still in her throat. She nodded once, decision set. "She's protecting her airway. We take the tube."
She tipped her chin toward Jenna. "Whisper." Then to Sam: "Two good breaths on the vent, then we go."
The machine helped her fill twice, bellows rising and falling under the blanket.
"Harper—big breath," Graves said. "Now cough."
Tape stripped free; the cuff deflated. Sam pulled in one clean motion. Wet rattled in its wake; he chased it with suction. A simple mask settled, warm oxygen feathering her face. Harper coughed hard, whole frame jolting, then dragged in a shallow sip, then another—rough, uneven, but hers.
"Good," Graves said, hand light at her shoulder. "Small breaths. In… out. Throat'll feel raw. Don't talk yet." Jenna glanced at the monitor—numbers held.
Brock bowed forward, elbows braced on his knees, both hands covering his mouth for a beat as if he could catch the sound that wanted to break loose. He let them fall slow, knuckles brushing his jaw, and just looked at her. Not the machine, not the screen—her. Her eyes found him and stayed, and the breath he let go shook, but for the first time since the Suburban he let it all the way out.
"You're in med bay," Graves said, voice low, even. "You know me. Brock and the team pulled you out of that basement. You've been asleep two weeks while we fixed your belly and let your lungs rest." She touched the mask edge lightly. "Your throat's going to hurt; don't try to talk. If you understand, blink once."
Harper gave her one slow blink.
"Good. If you need something, squeeze his hand." Graves loosened the soft cuff on the wrist Brock held and left the other tied. "Only this one. Brock—keep her away from the lines. Ten minutes, then we let her sleep."
Sam swabbed her lips; Jenna steadied the mask where Graves wanted it. Baines marked the time. The monitor steadied into an ordinary cadence, numbers climbing no higher than they should.
Brock bent close without crowding, turned her hand carefully, and set his cheek to her knuckles. His shoulders trembled once, then stilled. He laced their fingers, thumb resting over the small pulse that beat there. Her eyes stayed on his. His breath caught, steadied, and he let the words out rough, almost broken but certain.
"You're home," he said. "Rest now. I'll keep watch."