sa Hes

'd never had in life, yet be utterly unable to interact. My training, all thos

l push into the abyss – it wasn't an accident. It was murder. And Deacon, with his renowned neurological expertise, had dismissed my fatal injuries as "

, brutal gust of wind. I saw him for what he truly was: a man utterly consumed by his own narrative, to the point of sacrificing anyone who didn't

as a proper, urgent response. Two ambulances, lights flashing, cut through the night, their param

ith urgency. They worked quickly, securing my broken bo

mangled remains of what had been my right hand. "Massive blood loss, suspected interna

with the rough movement. The doors slammed shut, enclos

O negative ready!

. I saw their faces, desperate and determined. They were fighti

ue! She'

rporeal self arched, then fell limp. The flatline hummed

e's the best!" The paramedic's voice was de

itative, but not Deacon's. "Negative. Dr. Grant is

r! His fiancée! She's

d. Prioritize Ms. Potts's psychological well-being. Dr. Hester is to be routed to St. Jude's, pe

R, slammed his fist against the ambulance wall. "Less critical? She's

ir in the ambulance grew thick with unspoken anger and resignat

a stretcher, a blanket tucked around her. Deacon sat beside her, stroking her hair, his eyes filled with a concern he' d nev

d grim glances. They knew the truth, even if they co

er childhood, everyone said, after a violent hurricane had claimed her parents. Deacon had taken her in, promising to protect her, to be her rock. He often spoke of his deep guil

sible chain dragging me wherever he went. I watched as the private ambulance, carrying my murderer and my betrayer, spe

f a lie and a man' s blind devotion. The final indignity was that my own hospital, the place I had dedicated my