The fluorescent lights in the ER flickered as I stepped toward him. Denny. He was slouched in a plastic chair, his hands still smeared with blood. My chest tightened. What was he doing here?
I paused, unsure if I should approach him. He looked up, and for a moment, his eyes locked on mine. That same sharp pull hit me—visions flooding in like a tidal wave. Blood. Fear. His face, pale and lifeless, sprawled in an alley.
I blinked hard, forcing the images back. My pulse raced, but I schooled my face into neutrality. Don’t let him see you react, Calla.
Instead, I pretended not to know him. I walked past, brushing close enough for him to notice me but not stop.
“Calla,” he said, his voice low.
I froze. My back stiffened, and I turned around slowly. “Denny, from last night?”
His lips twitched into a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
I crossed my arms, trying to keep my voice steady. “What are you doing in the ER?”
He glanced at his bloodied hands. “I, uh, was visiting a friend this morning. They were attacked and brought here.”
His tone was too casual, his words too vague. My stomach twisted. “Attacked? Are they okay?”
“Theyy’ll live.” He shrugged, but his eyes darted to the side. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated,” I repeated, narrowing my eyes. “You know, for someone who keeps showing up covered in blood, you’re not very good at explaining things.”
Denny let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”
I wanted to push him, to demand the truth, but something in his expression stopped me. There was a flicker of vulnerability, quickly masked by his usual confidence.
“Fine,” I said, stepping back. “But you owe me answers.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but a nurse called my name. “Dr. Deneuve! We need you upstairs.”
I nodded and turned back to Denny. “Stay out of trouble.”
He smirked faintly. “No promises.”
Upstairs, in the ICU, the elderly patient from earlier was still in critical condition. His monitors beeped urgently, the sound grating against my nerves.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the vision I’d had earlier. The crystals. The diagnosis was right there, clear as day, but I hadn’t said a word.
I hovered by the patient’s chart, glancing around to make sure no one was watching.
This is stupid, Calla. You’ll get caught.
But the thought of doing nothing—of letting him die because I was too scared—was worse. I grabbed a pen and wrote the diagnosis in shaky letters: Gout-induced sepsis. Administer fluids, antibiotics, and uric acid reducers.
I shoved the chart back into place and walked away, my heart pounding in my ears.
Later, during rounds, I heard Dr. Sinclair’s voice from the nurses’ station.
“Who wrote this?” he asked, holding the patient’s chart. His tone was sharp, suspicious.
The nurse shook her head. “It wasn’t me, Doctor. But the treatment’s working. The patient’s stabilizing.”
Dr. Sinclair frowned, his eyes scanning the room. “Whoever it was… they saw something we didn’t. And they were right.”
I ducked around the corner, my pulse racing. He was right to be unsettled. I’d broken the rules. But for the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of pride.
That night, I dragged myself home, exhausted and still replaying the events of the day. I’d saved a life, but the weight of it didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like a secret, heavy and dangerous.
I was halfway through peeling off my scrubs when a knock at the door startled me. My heart jumped.
I wasn’t expecting anyone.
I grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled it on before cracking the door open.
Denny stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, his face shadowed by the dim hallway light.
“Denny?” I frowned. “What are you doing here?”
He hesitated, his shoulders tense. “I wanted to apologize. For earlier. For showing up like that.”
I stepped aside, letting him in. “You could’ve just texted.”
He let out a breath and walked in, his movements slower than usual, like he was carrying something heavy.
“You shouldn’t get too close to people like me, Calla,” he said, his voice low.
I froze, my hand still on the door. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned against the wall, his gaze fixed on the floor.
“It means… I’m not exactly the kind of guy you want in your life,” he said finally. “There are things you don’t know. Things you don’t want to know.”
My chest tightened. “You don’t get to decide that for me, Denny.”
He looked up, and for a split second, I saw something raw in his eyes. Regret, maybe. Or fear.
“I’m serious, Calla. Walk away while you still can.”
“No,” I said firmly. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
His jaw tightened, but before he could respond, the room spun.
Flashes. A dark alley. Gunfire. Denny, lying still, blood pooling around him.
I gasped, stumbling back.