Olena wanted to scream, or perhaps hit herself. Her internal conflict was relentless and merciless. Why had she allowed herself to unravel because of that infuriating doctor? Why had she scaled three flights of stairs in a state of blind panic to ensure a man she barely knew was still breathing? Why had she offered him a seat in the privacy of her car, and why, most irritatingly of all, did his polite rejection feel like a physical bruise to her ego?
"Zeph?" she called out. In the rearview mirror of the black SUV, she caught his gaze, eyes that were weary, detached, and perpetually unimpressed.
"I'm not ready to go home yet. Just drive. Anywhere. I need to clear my head."
"As you wish, ma'am," Zeph replied, his voice a flat line.
He was a study in contradictions. One moment, he was engaging in rare, humanizing banter; the next, he radiated an aura of electrified hostility that warned everyone to stay back. He could laugh at Kadyn's adolescent nickname for the doctor and then, in a heartbeat, look so profoundly bored that he seemed on the verge of resigning. Olena felt the weight of the day pressing behind her eyelids, so she leaned her head back against the soft leather of the car seat and let the city blur into a smudge of neon and grey.
When she finally opened her eyes, the glittering glass towers of Billionaire's Row had vanished. They were deep in an industrial pocket of the Bronx, an area that felt light-years away from her zip code. A weathered, peeling billboard advertised a generic brand of detergent next to a hulking, rusted factory that groaned with the sound of grinding machinery.
The neighborhood was raw, unpolished, and entirely out of Olena's element. Groups of teenagers were playing street soccer near a fire hydrant, their laughter echoing off the brick. For a fleeting second, the sight stabbed at her; it was a reminder of the childhood that had been stolen from her by tragedy and cold boardrooms. A stray cat darted across the asphalt, disappearing into a patch of overgrown weeds.
"That's enough sightseeing," Olena murmured, the discomfort prickling at her skin. "Let's get out of here."
She turned her attention to her phone, trying to drown out the environment. Outside, the world continued: a woman in a faded denim jacket was tending to some hardy marigolds in window boxes, while two young boys sat on a stoop nearby, messy peanut butter sandwiches in hand.
The peace was shattered by the scream of tires. A dark Dodge Charger and a battered sedan tore past the SUV, weaving dangerously. The air was suddenly sliced by the high-pitched wail of NYPD sirens. Before Olena could process the intrusion, the staccato pop-pop-pop of gunfire erupted from the block ahead. The neighborhood transformed instantly; the cheering children vanished into doorways, and the woman with the flowers dove for cover.
"Go! Zeph, move the car!" Olena screamed, her voice thin with rising terror.
Zeph didn't move. He sat like a statue, his hands gripped the wheels tightly.
"Zeph! Have you suddenly gone deaf? Drive!" She lunged forward, reaching for his shoulder to shake him out of his apparent paralysis. He had to be paralyzed, or it wouldn't make sense.
"Stay down," Zeph commanded, his voice eerily calm. "We can't move. We'd be driving directly into the crossfire. We're shielded by the engine block here. Just stay low."
"Shielded? We're sitting ducks!" she hissed. Her hands began to tremble, a violent, rhythmic shaking she couldn't suppress. The panic attack she thought she had conquered years ago was clawing its way up her throat. The sound of the shots grew louder and more frequent. Olena scrambled off the seat and curled into a ball on the floorboards, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The world began to dim at the edges, and the air felt like it was being sucked out of the cabin and out of her lungs.
***
Back at the hospital, Kadyn had spent the last half hour stalking the hallway like a caged predator, waiting for Dr. Stewie to reappear. When the doctor finally rounded the corner, he looked annoyed.
"Is this a joke to you? I have questions, and you have the charts," Kadyn said, blocking his path.
"Mr. Kadyn, seeing as you terminated your stay already, you need to make a fresh appointment through the administrative desk. I have a ward full of critical patients," Dr. Stewie replied, trying to sidestep him.
Kadyn reached out and caught the doctor's arm. He didn't mean to use force, but the grip was firm enough to make Dr. Stewie wince. "I'm not a fan of hurting people, Doc. But the pinch you're feeling right now is a paper cut compared to the fire I felt in my head while you were poking me with needles and refusing to explain why."
The doctor's expression softened into guilt, but only for a flickering moment. "I was doing my job. Your vitals were an anomaly."
"Fine. You do your job; that's perfectly fine. Just answer me one thing: what did the blood work show?"
Dr. Stewie rolled his eyes, a gesture that felt decidedly unprofessional to Kadyn. "You're incredibly infuriating; has anyone told you that?"
"Daily. Now, did you find out why I turned into a human furnace?"
"If you had stayed for another forty-eight hours of observation, maybe we'd have a lead," the doctor said, pulling his arm away.
"Wait," Kadyn called out, catching up and dropping a hand on the man's shoulder.
"You're very physical, aren't you?" Dr. Stewie remarked dryly.
"Don't flatter yourself; I don't play for your team," Kadyn shot back. "Just tell me, have you ever seen anything like this? The temperature? The hallucinations?"
Dr. Stewie paused, a look of genuine medical concern finally surfacing.
"No. I haven't. And there's something else... your cardiac rhythm. It's nearly double the standard resting rate. By all rights, you should be in hypertensive crisis, but your blood pressure is perfectly stable. Your pulse is performing at an athletic peak while you're standing still. You're a medical impossibility, Mr. Kadyn."
With that unsettling parting gift, the doctor walked away, leaving Kadyn standing in the center of the hall, surrounded by the cloying scent of antiseptic and the heavy silence of the sick. Worst of all, he hadn't gotten any answers; instead, he was leaving with a puzzle.
***
Olena gasped, her lungs burning as she came to. Her eyes flew open to find Zeph hovering over her, an empty plastic water bottle in his hand. Her hair was matted to her forehead, and her white silk blouse was now a translucent, sodden mess.
"Did you... did you just dump a liter of Evian on me?" she sputtered, her indignation momentarily overriding her fear. "I am your employer!"
She wanted to cry, but the sheer absurdity of the situation kept the tears at bay. Zeph was far too blunt, and she was certainly going to fire him or promote him once they weren't in a war zone.
"Are you back with us, ma'am?" Zeph asked, a ghost of a smug grin threatening to break his stoic mask.
Olena opened her mouth to shoot a scathing retort, but the words died. She was drenched, shivering on the floor of a luxury car in the middle of a gang shooting. She didn't have the energy for a lecture. She simply sat back on the leather, clutching her arms around her chest. Zeph, sensing the shift, quietly rolled up the reinforced windows and reclined his seat, keeping his eyes on the side mirrors.
Suddenly, a rhythmic tapping came from the driver's side window. A woman's voice, bright and authoritative, cut through the muffled sound of distant sirens.
Zeph looked at Sarina, seeking silent permission to answer. She nodded, and he lowered the tinted glass just enough to see out but not enough to expose Sarina's bedraggled state.
A woman in a navy tactical vest stood there, a "hug me" smile plastered on her face that didn't quite reach her sharp, observant eyes. She flashed a gold shield against the glass.
"Afternoon, folks. I'm Detective Liira Segast. You've stumbled into an active crime scene, and it's about to get a lot louder. We have suspects unaccounted for, and I need to check your vehicle for…"
Sarina's heart seemed to stop beating, and she didn't hear the rest of what the detective was saying. She knew that voice. She knew that smile.
Liira. Her Liira. The girl who had once sworn she would never wear a uniform because she blamed the NYPD for her father's absence. The Liira who had dreamed of opening a patisserie in the 4th Arrondissement and had moved to Paris even though it meant breaking Matt's heart. This was the woman who had been her anchor when she was an orphaned ward of the state.
And here she was, in the Bronx, wearing a badge.
The world seemed to slow down. Olena moved to call out her name, but another deafening crack of a rifle echoed through the alleyway.
Detective Liira's eyes went wide. A crimson spray painted the window of the Maybach, and Liira collapsed out of sight with a sickening thud.
The silence that followed was far worse than the gunfire. Olena stared at the blood on the glass, her mind fracturing. She didn't just fall into a panic mode; she fell into an abyss.