Hospitals always have that one scent - sharp from bleach, waxy floors, or maybe just sadness hanging around.
I sat on a flimsy sheet of paper laid across an exam table inside a quiet trauma bay at Mercy, feet swinging free.
The rush was wearing off - now just this icy emptiness pulsed deep in my ribs.
Everything ached without mercy. A sharp sting burned through my skull where broken glass had cut, my shoulder screamed like it got crushed by something brutal, yet what really dragged? That raw hole where Biggs should've been, still stuck on the hot road back there.
A nurse pressed a cloth to the gash above my eye - whatever she used burned like hellfire.
"You're lucky, Ms. Vega," she said, her voice soft, trying to be soothing.
"Another inch down and you'd have lost the eye. We'll need a few stitches, but the scar will be minimal. With good concealer, no one will know."
I'll recognize it, I told myself. Each time I check my reflection, that evening will flash back - when my brother nearly died because of me.
"Just sew it up," I said, my voice tight. "And tell me about Jordan."
"He's in surgery now. The doctors are optimistic. They're pinning the leg. He's young, he's strong."
He's just a boy - I almost shouted it out loud. One minute he's gaming on 2K, next thing you know, stressing over school tests. War stuff? Operations? Nah, that ain't his world.
Instead, I nodded. "Do it."
She sewed me without saying a word. I just watched the wall, ticking off each tile in my head.
One, two, three. Keep calm. Four, five, six. Stay strong. That shiny dress - the one everyone gawked at earlier - was wrecked now, splashed with red and smeared with ash from the busted airbag.
Felt like I'd been dumped out of heaven and rolled in dirt.
Once she was gone, quiet filled the room - thick, pressing. I had to get my phone. Then reach Bishop. Find out who gave the order, then burn every last one of their kin to the ground.
Yet when I tried to shift, the lock snapped loose.
It was someone else - not the nurse.
Detective Marcus Stone slid in quiet, like shadows do. Ditching the long coat showed off a snug holster tucked under a crisp white shirt - tight across his shoulders.
In one hand, two foam cups steamed with coffee. Not rushed. Not tense. Just at ease, even when everything around him wasn't.
"You're not supposed to be back here," I said, my voice ice cold.
"You shouldn't even be breathing," he shot back, slamming the door closed with his foot. Moving closer, he set a cup down on the metal tray near me.
"Just like you used to take it - dark, two spoons of sugar. Thought your system might crave something sweet after all this mess.
Assuming you can feel anything at all."
I skipped the coffee.
Stared at him - actually took him in. Sure, he was good-looking, deep-toned skin, clean-cut jaw, eyes lit with an intense kind of smarts that felt risky.
Not just looks though.
Moved like someone used to rough corners, tough calls, like he'd lived every bit of it - possibly more than me.
"I gave my statement to the uniform outside," I said, crossing my arms. It hurt my shoulder, but I didn't flinch. "I'm a victim of a random carjacking. I have nothing else to say."
Stone propped himself by the counter, legs casually crossed at the ankles. Sipping his coffee real slow, he kept staring straight into my eyes - no looking away. His grip on the cup stayed loose, but his focus? Sharp as ever.
"Random carjacking," he repeated, testing the words like they were sour milk. "That's the story? A random crew rolls up on a custom Maybach with ballistic panels, engages in a high-speed chase, and opens fire with military-grade automatic weapons?
For a car?"
"It's a nice car," I deadpanned.
He laughed. It was a short, dry sound.
"Selina. Can I call you Selina? Ms. Vega feels too formal for two people who just shared a crime scene."
"You can call me Ms. Vega. And you can call my lawyer if you have more questions."
He shoved away from the counter, moving closer. The atmosphere changed suddenly. It felt heavier, like something tense sparking between us.
Not just doubt - there was fire. That intense heat when top rivals face off in tight space.
"I checked the scene, Ms. Vega," he said, his voice dropping low, intimate. "Ballistics found casings inside your vehicle. 9mm. Not from the shooters. Fired from the backseat. Out the window."
My heart jumped, yet I looked totally unimpressed. "The driver had a gun - legal one - and he was just keeping us safe."
"Biggs," Stone said, nodding. "Good man. Clean record. Big guy. But the angle of the shots… they didn't come from the driver's seat. They came from the rear passenger side. Low trajectory."
He moved forward once more. Now he stood right inside my bubble - near enough to spot tiny golden specks in those deep eyes. Near enough to catch the scent of coffee mixed with greasy metal from his weapon.
"You're a good shot, Selina," he murmured. "Under pressure. Moving vehicle. You tagged their door frame. Spooked 'em enough to save your brother's life."
"I'm a cosmetics CEO, Detective. I make lipstick. I don't shoot guns."
"And I'm the Easter Bunny." He smirked, but there was no humor in it. "Stop playing with me. I know what you are. I've been watching you for weeks. The salons. The cash flow. The way you walk through a room like you own the building and everyone in it."
"If you have evidence, arrest me," I challenged, tilting my chin up, daring him. "If not, get out of my face."
He looked at me, hunting for a break in the mask. Not finding it. Yet under my boldness, there was a spark - something risky stirring. This wasn't only about wrapping up a file.
Curiosity pulled him in. Me? Honestly, I couldn't look away either. He didn't flinch around me. Most guys were scared stiff of the Queen - or just out to take advantage. Stone stared at me like I was some riddle he couldn't wait to crack.
The moment we met, tension snapped into place - like two players spotting each other mid-move. He saw through me right away. I could tell he did. Yet we both kept going, since the real play had only begun.
"You're not scared," he noted, his gaze drifting to the fresh stitches on my forehead.
"Most civilians, they'd be shaking. Crying. Asking for a priest. You? You're sitting here plotting. I can see the gears turning. You're not thinking about the trauma. You're thinking about the receipt."
"Someone hurt my family," I said, the mask slipping just enough to show the steel beneath. "Fear is a waste of time. Anger gets things done."
"And what comes after anger?"
"Justice."
"Street justice?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Or the kind I provide?"
"Your kind takes too long," I whispered.
He stopped cold. Because I'd offered just a bit - something small slipped out - I wouldn't sit around waiting on courts or verdicts.
He put the coffee on the tray, taking his time. Then he shifted closer, one hand on the table's side, trapping me there. His face hovered near mine - just a breath away. Heat came off him in waves.
In some other world, with changed skies, that pull could've led to a soft touch. Instead, right here, it sparked a battle.
His gaze dug into me, peeling off the titles one by one - boss, survivor, sibling - till only the murderer inside remained exposed.
"Listen to me closely," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in my chest.
"You think you can handle this. You think you can go back to your penthouse, make a few calls, and wipe this slate clean. But you're wrong."
He stopped, allowing quiet to grow - thick, then cutting. While it hung there, tense and close.
"Whoever did this wasn't trying to scare you, Ms. Vega. They weren't trying to rob you. They were trying to erase you."
He shifted back a bit, eyes flicking down to my mouth then up again. Not quite safe. Like danger was near. Maybe something more.
"You have an idea who, don't you?"
I kept staring at him, didn't look away, couldn't catch my breath.
"Leave," I told him.
Stone kept looking at me - just for a beat - then stood taller, like he flipped a switch. A card came out of his pocket, tossed lightly onto my legs.
"Call me when you realize you're in over your head," he said.
He moved toward the door, stopping when his fingers touched the edge. Without turning around, he stayed quiet.
"And Selina? Don't leave town. I'll be seeing you."
The door snapped closed, so I stood there by myself in the chilly, bright space. My eyes dropped to the piece - Detective Marcus Stone.
I squashed it tight, fingers squeezing till it cracked.
He got it correct. Because someone made an attempt to wipe my existence out.
But they missed.
Then again, the eraser started moving toward them.