Chapter 3 Emergency

The emergency doors flew open so hard they rattled against the wall.

"Trauma incoming!"

The shout tore through the ward sharply and Ivy Byrne was already moving before the words fully registered. Charts were dropped. Conversations died mid-sentence. The controlled hum of the hospital snapped into something louder and urgent.

A gurney burst through the doors, pushed hard, its wheels squealing against the floor.

"Male. Severe head trauma."

"BP's unstable."

"Clear a bay now!."

Ivy fell into step beside the gurney, pulling on gloves as she moved. The man on it was unconscious, blood dark and sticky in his hair, his face frighteningly pale beneath it. There was a split at his lip, swelling already blooming along his cheekbone. His chest rose, but unevenly, like breathing itself was an effort.

"Sir," a paramedic called loudly, leaning close. "Sir, can you hear me?"

No response.

Ivy's fingers found the pulse at his neck. It was weak.

"Pressure's dropping," she said, voice steady even as her heart kicked up.

"Get fluids in."

"I've got him."

Hands moved fast. Too many at once. Ivy focused on what was in front of her, numbers, rhythm and the body on the edge of slipping away.

"Stay with us, sir," someone said again. "Stay with us."

The words felt less like instruction and more like a plea.

They reached the bay, transferring him in one fluid motion. Ivy helped secure lines, adjusted monitors, her movements were efficient and automatic. She'd done this a hundred times before. Still, something about him snagged her attention.

"Any ID?" someone asked.

"Name's Damon Hale," a voice answered from behind them. "Brought in with two others."

Ivy didn't turn. Names came later. Survival came first.

The monitor beeped with sharp sounds.

"He's crashing."

The room tightened.

"BP's dropping fast."

"Come on," another voice muttered. "Don't you do this."

Ivy caught a glimpse of a man just beyond the curtain. He was tall and shaken with blood on his sleeve. He was injured, but upright, refusing a chair that someone tried to push toward him.

"That's him," the man said hoarsely. "That's Damon."

Victor was devastated.

She didn't know him but she recognized the way he stood still, like if he moved he might fall apart.

"Sir, we need you to step back," someone told him.

"I'm not in the way," Victor said tightly. "Just tell me what's happening."

"We're doing everything we can."

The words sounded rehearsed. Ivy hated that. She hated how empty they always felt.

"Sir, can you hear me?" the doctor repeated, louder this time.

Nothing.

Ivy watched the monitor dip again, numbers sliding in the wrong direction.

"Hold him steady."

"I've got him."

Her hands were on his arm now, grounding him, grounding herself.

"Stay with us."

The phrase echoed through the room, said by different voices, layered on top of each other like a chant.

For a moment, just one terrifying moment, the monitor flatlined.

Everything froze.

Then-

A heartbeat.

A flicker.

The line jumped.

"There," someone said. "There we go." The room exhaled as one.

"Okay," the doctor said. "Okay. He's stabilizing."

Ivy didn't relax. Not yet. Stabilizing was fragile and temporary. It meant not dead, not safe. They worked for several more minutes, the tension slowly easing but never disappearing entirely. Finally, the worst of it passed.

"He's stable," the doctor confirmed. "For now."

Victor sagged visibly, one hand bracing against the wall. Ivy saw his knuckles whiten as he clenched them.

"Can I see him?" he asked.

"In a moment," the doctor replied. "He needs imaging first."

Victor nodded once, jaw tight. "I'll wait."

They moved Damon out of the bay once the immediate danger had passed. Ivy followed with a chart in hand, though she hadn't been assigned to him specifically. She told herself it was habit.

The hallway was quieter. The machines hummed steadily now, no longer screaming alarms.

Damon lay still on the bed, his breathing was more even, but still shallow. Ivy adjusted his IV, checking his vitals again.

Damon Hale.

The name surfaced, lodged somewhere in her thoughts.

She frowned faintly at herself and pushed it away.

Victor appeared again, refusing help for his own injuries, insisting on standing beside the bed. "What's his condition?" he asked.

"Stable," the doctor repeated. "But unconscious."

"How long?"

The doctor hesitated. Ivy noticed that.

"It's too early to say," he answered carefully. "The head trauma was severe. He may wake up soon. Or it may take time."

"How much time?" Victor pressed.

"Days," the doctor said. "Weeks. Possibly longer."

Victor nodded slowly, absorbing the words like blows.

"And the other?" he asked. "The driver?"

"Alive," the doctor said. "Broken ribs. Fractured leg. He's in surgery now."

Victor closed his eyes briefly. "Hmmm"

Ivy watched all of this quietly, cataloging details she didn't need to remember but somehow knew she would.

The way Victor stood too straight and the way his eyes never left Damon.

Hours passed.

The ward settled into its nighttime rhythm. Ivy's shift continued, duties pulling her away and then back again.

She told herself she didn't need to check on him again. She did anyway.

Damon lay unchanged, machines humming softly beside him. His face looked calmer now, stripped of urgency, almost peaceful.

Almost.

Ivy adjusted the blanket at his shoulders, careful not to disturb him.

"Several months wouldn't be unusual," she heard a doctor say quietly outside the room.

Her hand stilled.

"That long?" Victor asked.

"Yes. There's no guarantee. He could wake tomorrow. Or not at all."

Silence followed.

Ivy pretended not to listen, but the words settled deep.

Several months.

She looked at Damon again, really looked this time.

He didn't look like a man who belonged to a hospital bed. He looked like someone paused mid-stride, caught between one moment and the next.

She straightened, scolding herself silently.

"This is unprofessional."

Later, when the lights dimmed further and the ward quieted to a low murmur, Ivy found herself back in his room one last time.

Just to check the monitor, she told herself. And to make sure everything was steady. She moved softly, adjusting a setting, smoothing the sheet.

His fingers twitched.

It was small. Almost nothing. But she saw it.

Her breath caught.

"Sir?" she whispered, before she could stop herself.

Nothing.

She waited. Her eyes were fixed on his hand with her heart pounding.

It didn't move again.

Rationality rushed in. Probably muscle reflex and nerve response. It meant nothing. She told herself that as she stepped back and forced herself to leave the room. The door clicked shut behind her.

But long after she returned to her duties, the image lingered in her mind.

"Why do I feel this way?" She asked herself.

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