Everything in me went still.
“What?”
“A pulse.”
It was weak.Barely there.But it was something.
The shift was immediate.Electric.The air changed.Both medics surged forward, movements snapping into overdrive, voices overlapping as adrenaline hit hard.
“Get him prepped—defib?—”
“We’ve got him—keep pressure?—”
“Move, move?—”
The gun in my hand lowered.
They moved fast, loading him onto the gurney with practiced precision—hands steady, voices sharp, working to stabilize him like his life was a thread stretched too thin, ready to snap if they lost focus for even a second.
“Charging.”
The word cut through the noise.
Pads pressed to his chest.
After a pause, the shock hit.
His body jerked violently off the stretcher, muscles locking as the current tore through him, lifting him for a split second before he dropped back down, lifeless again beneath their hands.
“Again.”
They moved him into the ambulance, still working on him.
The doors slammed on my brother, sirens cutting through the air as they tore off toward the hospital.
37
Archie
Idreamed.
A dream that dragged me under and kept me there.
Pieces of the past.Fragments of the present.But mostly the past.
I was suspended somewhere between life and whatever waited beyond it, caught in that cold, endless stretch where nothing felt solid and time lost its shape.
Weight pressed against my chest like stone.Heavy enough to crush bone.Heavy enough to make breathing feel like a punishment.
Hands held me there—steadying me, or restraining me, I couldn’t tell.
There were voices around me.Distant.Distorted.Like they were reaching me through water.
I heard them.But none of it made sense.
And then, I saw him.
Rasputin.
