His lips move, but nothing comes out at first. Blood flecks the corner of his mouth, bright and fresh. His fingers curl weakly around my wrist, his grip surprisingly firm for someone this close to the edge.
“Alexei,” he whispers at last, the Russian accent faint but unmistakable. The syllables roll off his tongue in a way that feels foreign and familiar all at once.
The name stirs an unease inside me I can’t quite place. It shouldn't mean anything to me. It doesn't. And yet my instincts flare, with the same awareness that washed over me in the alley. Bratva violence.
The thought flashes through me unbidden, and I shove it aside. This is a patient, nothing more. I don't let myself think about what it means, and the way his injuries look too intentional. The bruises along his ribs are dark and mottled, the imprint of knuckles still visible. His knuckles are scraped raw, defensive wounds that tell a story I don't want to read.
“Okay, Alexei,” I respond gently, keeping my voice low and even. “Stay with me. We're going to take care of you.”
His grip tightens, his fingers biting into my skin hard enough to leave marks. His eyes dart briefly around the room, panic flashing there, then snap back to my face. He swallows hard, his throat bobbing, the cords in his neck standing out beneath the skin. A faint tattoo peeks out from the torn collar of his shirt, the lines blurred and smudged with blood.
“They're…coming,” he breathes.
I lean in closer, blocking out the chaos with my body, lowering my voice until it's just for him. My knee presses against the gurney as I bend over him. “Listen to me. You're safe here. Focus on my voice.”
His breathing stutters, his chest hitching. The monitor spikes, his heart rate climbing into dangerous territory. “You don't understand,” he insists, urgency threading through the pain. His words slur together, consonants blurring at the edges. “Names. Remember the… names.” He coughs on the last word, blood spotting his lips.
I glance up briefly, catching Lila's eye across the bed. She's already moving, issuing orders, her expression all focus and command. Her hands move without hesitation, starting an IV line and checking the pressure cuff. The resident beside her fumbles with a syringe, his fingers trembling.
“Alexei,” I continue again, firmer now. My thumb presses gently against the inside of his wrist, feeling the pulse flutter and skip. “I need you to breathe with me. In through your nose.”
He tries. I can see the effort it costs him, the way his chest barely rises, his ribs straining beneath bruised skin. His nostrils flare, pulling in air that doesn't seem to reach his lungs.
“Good,” I encourage softly, keeping my tone warm and reassuring. “Out through your mouth.”
His eyes never leave mine. They search my face like he's clinging to it and I'm the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. There's desperation there, the need to be heard overwhelming everything else.
“Betrayal,” he whispers, the word breaking apart on his tongue. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth, trickling down his chin in a thin line. “Inside.”
“Okay,” I soothe, even as my heart starts to pound harder. The word echoes in my head, matching the rhythm of the monitors. “You're doing great. Keep talking if you can.”
His fingers twitch against my wrist, a nervous habit, his thumb rubbing against his index finger again and again. The motion is repetitive and compulsive, a tell I file away without meaning to. His breathing grows more erratic, each inhale shorter than the last. The monitor screeches as oxygen levels dip into the eighties.
“Ark---” He coughs, blood flecking his lips, spattering across the white sheets. “Arkady.”
The name means nothing to me. It floats loose in my mind, a puzzle piece without context. But I commit it to memory anyway, tucking it away in the same place I store medication dosages and surgical protocols.
“Stay with me,” I urge, tightening my grip on his wrist just enough for him to feel it. My pulse throbs against his skin, our rhythms out of sync. “You're not alone.”
His eyes soften at that, relief flickering through the fear. The tension in his jaw eases, just a fraction, and he nods faintly, the movement barely perceptible. His head shifts against the gurney, his dark hair sticking to the vinyl. “Tellpakhan," he murmurs, the words slurring as shock tightens its grip. His accent thickens, the consonants bleeding together. “Danger…”
The monitor shrieks. Everything accelerates. I call for epinephrine. The resident scrambles for the crash cart, the wheels rattling as he yanks it closer. Hands move faster, a blurof motion and urgency. I stay right where I am, my voice steady in his ear as we work to stabilize him, and his blood pressure drops. His heart rate spikes and then falters. The numbers on the screen run together, red warnings flashing faster than I can process.
“Alexei, look at me,” I insist when his eyes start to roll back, the whites showing beneath his lashes. “Stay here. Stay with me.”
His grip loosens, his fingers slipping from my wrist, but his gaze remains fixed on my face. There's peace there now, the kind that comes when someone knows they've done all they can. The fight drains out of him, his muscles going slack, chest barely moving.
“Tellpakhan,” he whispers, more to himself than to me. Then he closes his eyes.
We fight. We push fluids, call for blood, and work through the algorithms with methodical focus. Lila barks orders, her voice rising above the noise. The resident compresses his chest, counting under his breath, sweat beading on his forehead. I intubate, threading the tube down his throat with hands that don't shake anymore, adrenaline burning away the tremor. But his body has already made its decision. The monitor flatlines, the single high-pitched tone filling the room, drowning out everything else.
The time of death is called less than ten minutes later.
The room goes quiet in that peculiar way it always does after a loss, the adrenaline draining out and leaving behind the hollow echo of what could have been. The monitors go silent. Someone turns off the alarms. The absence of sound is almost worse than the noise. I step back, my hands dropping to my sides, and my chest tight as I stare down at him. His face looks younger indeath, the tension smoothed away, leaving behind features that might have been handsome under different circumstances. His eyes remain closed, lashes dark against pale cheeks.
Alexei Morozov.
I memorize the name without knowing why. It loops through my head, insistent and haunting, refusing to let go.
