Her face looks ghost-pale beneath the fluorescent lights, lips nearly colorless now. Every breath comes shallow and uneven, like her body’s forgetting how to keep fighting.
A nurse steps in front of me briefly. “Sir, we need room—”
“No.”
The word cuts out sharper than intended.
She hesitates.
The doctor glances toward me while walking beside the stretcher, reading the situation in one quick look.
Then he nods once.
“He stays. Just don’t interfere.”
As if I could walk away now.
They wheel Olivia straight into trauma.
Machines start screaming almost immediately.
Monitors flash.
People move fast around her.
Too fast.
Not fast enough.
“Pressure crashing.”
“Prep blood now.”
“Possible internal bleed.”
Every word lands like another bullet.
I stop near the wall, fists clenched hard enough my hands ache while doctors cut away the rest of the bandages covering her side.
More blood.
Jesus Christ.
My stomach turns cold.
“Olivia.”
No response.
I step closer before I can stop myself.
“Hey.” My voice comes out rough. “You’re okay.”
Lie.
Doesn’t matter.
She needs to hear it anyway.
