A nurse draws up the medication I asked for as I help roll Marcus onto his side to prevent aspiration. The seizurecontinues, his oxygen levels dropping further despite the respiratory support.
Everything speeds up after that. The seizure gives way to something worse—cardiac arrhythmia, then asystole.
I lose track of time as we work, the rhythm of CPR, the push of medications, the shock of the defibrillator. One minute blurs into five, into ten, into twenty. My arms ache from taking over compressions, but I don't stop, can't stop. In my peripheral vision, I see the photo of the little girl on his phone.
"Another round of epi," I demand, even as I register the flatline that hasn't changed despite our efforts. "And push one of atropine."
"Dr. Phillips. He's gone." Harper's voice cuts through my focus.
I shake my head, continuing compressions. "Not yet. His daughter needs him."
A hand lands on my shoulder—the anesthesiologist, her eyes are gentle but firm above her mask. "Dr. Phillips. It's been thirty-eight minutes. There's no cardiac activity."
Reality crashes back in as I look around the room, seeing the resigned expressions on every face. I step back, my arms trembling from exertion, and watch as Harper calls it.
"Time of death, ten-forty-seven."
The words echo in my head as the room slowly empties, equipment being removed, monitors silenced. I stand there, staring at Marcus's still form, at the phone with his daughter's picture. A nurse gently places a sheet over his face, and I feel that familiar hollowness spreading through my chest, the unique emptiness of losing a patient.
"I'll inform the family," Harper says, his clinical detachment finally showing a crack of humanity.
Not trusting my voice, I barely manage a nod. I make it through the necessary documentation, the preliminary deathcertificate, all with a composed exterior that threatens to shatter with each passing minute. Only when everything is handled do I allow myself to step away, walking with measured steps down the corridor until I find what I'm looking for—a supply closet, something small and private.
I slip inside, closing the door behind me, and finally let the mask drop. The tears come hot and fast, burning trails down my cheeks as I slide down until I'm sitting on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest. In the darkness among shelves of gauze and antiseptic, surrounded by the clinical smell of alcohol wipes and latex, I break.
It's not just Marcus. It's Dad all over again—the helplessness, the failure, the knowledge that all my training and determination couldn't save someone who needed to be saved. I press my hand against my mouth to muffle the sobs that wrack my body as memories flash behind my closed eyelids. Dad in his hospital bed. The flat line on his monitor. The way his hand grew cold in mine.
I don't hear the door open, it's the sudden shaft of light that makes me look up. Blinking through tears, I see a tall figure silhouetted in the doorway. For a moment, I don't recognize him. Then he steps forward, and my breath catches.
Sebastian stands there, his imposing frame filling the entrance, those dark eyes taking in my crumpled form on the floor.
"Dr. Phillips," he says.
I quickly wipe at my face, attempting to recover some dignity, but it's far too late for that. He's seen me—really seen me—at my most vulnerable, my most broken. I wait for the dismissal, the clinical reminder about professional distance, the lecture about emotional involvement.
Instead, he steps inside and closes the door behind him, plunging us back into darkness.
Chapter 6
Sebastian
The darkness of the supply closet wraps around us like a shroud, the only light a thin slice beneath the door that casts Mia's tear-stained face in ghostly relief. I didn't plan to step inside, didn't intend to close the door behind me, but here I am, standing in near-total darkness with a broken-looking woman huddled on the floor at my feet. My eyes slowly adjust, and I can make out more of her now—knees drawn to her chest, red curls escaping her braid to frame her face, those usually vibrant eyes dulled with grief. Something shifts in my chest, an uncomfortable tightness that I refuse to examine too closely.
"Dr. Phillips," I say again, my voice too loud in the confined space.
She sniffles, wiping frantically at her face with the sleeve of her lab coat. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice thick with tears. "I know this is unprofessional. I just needed a minute."
I should leave. I should tell her to pull herself together, that emotional outbursts have no place in a hospital. But my feet remain rooted to the floor, my body betraying my better judgment.
"Your patient," I say, the words coming out gentle. "Ellis."
She nods, fresh tears spilling over. "He has—had—a little girl. Emma." Her voice cracks on the name. "Her picture was right there on his phone the whole time we were working on him."
The closet is small, barely enough room for the shelves of supplies and the two of us. I shift, uncomfortable with the intimacy of the space, with the scent of her shampoo—something citrusy—mingling with the antiseptic smell of the hospital.
"Sometimes we lose them," I say, the platitude tasting stale on my tongue.
"I know that," she responds, a flash of her usual fire breaking through the grief. "I'm not naive, Dr. Walker. It's just—"
