The Jeep screeched into the emergency bay with a howl of burning rubber, tires smoking as it jerked to a violent stop. I was already out the door before the engine died, Lila cradled in my arms—limp, too light, too still.

The automatic doors hissed open like a reluctant confession. Fluorescent lights slammed into us, harsh and unforgiving, stripping away the night. The air hit next, thick with antiseptic sting, metallic blood, and the sour undercurrent of raw fear.

"I NEED HELP—NOW!" My roar cracked through the sterile hush.

Heads snapped toward us. A nurse behind the desk jolted upright. Two orderlies froze mid-sentence, mouths open.

Ava was already there, slamming her Agent ID onto the counter like a gauntlet thrown. "Ava Voss. Best trauma team you have. VIP suite, fifth floor. Move."

The nurse opened her mouth, stammering, "Ma'am, protocol requires—"

"NOW!" Ava's voice sliced clean through the objection, sharp as a scalpel. She slid my matte-black credit card I gave all my women across the desk—the kind that opened doors governments couldn't. "Money is irrelevant. Page Dr. Rojas. Page your head of trauma. Page every specialist on call. I needed them five minutes ago."

The nurse's fingers trembled as she snatched the phone. "Code Silver, ER. All available trauma to bay one. Code Silver."

A young doctor burst through the swinging doors—early thirties, white coat still pristine, eyes widening the instant they landed on Lila. "What happened?"

"Thirty-two-foot fall," I said, throat raw. "I caught her just before impact. Unconscious eight minutes. Breathing shallow. Possible concussion, spinal, internal bleeding—everything."

No more questions. He snapped into motion. "Gurney! Stat!"

An orderly sprinted over with a stretcher. I lowered Lila onto the crisp white sheets; she looked impossibly small, fragile, her blonde hair spilling over the edge like molten gold against snow. The once-delicate white lace robe hung in bloodstained tatters, dark smears crusting her cheek.

The doctor's hands flew—checking pulse at her throat, lifting eyelids to flash a penlight, pressing carefully along her ribs. "Pupils responsive but sluggish. BP ninety over sixty and dropping. Possible internal hemorrhage. Trauma One—go!"

The gurney launched forward, wheels shrieking against polished linoleum. Ava and I jogged alongside, refusing to let go.

"Sir, family only beyond—" a nurse began.

Ava flashed the black card again. "He is family. He stays. Bill whatever you want."

The nurse stepped aside without another word.

Elevator doors slid open to the hushed luxury of the fifth-floor VIP wing—soft carpet underfoot, original art on the walls, the scent of money replacing bleach. A poised woman in a tailored suit appeared instantly, clipboard in hand.

"Ms. Voss, I'm Sandra, VIP Services. Suite 517 is ready. Dr. Rojas ETA ninety seconds."

"Who's Rojas?" I demanded.

"Head of Trauma Surgery. Twenty years. The best on the continent."

"Not good enough," I said. "Get two more. Neurologist and cardiologist on standby."

Sandra blinked once. "Sir—"

"Do it," Ava cut in using her CIA agent card again, voice like ice cracking. "And I want a full-body CT with contrast in the next ten minutes."

Sandra was already dialing as we pushed through the double doors of 517.

The room was more penthouse than hospital: king-sized medical bed, leather sofa, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering city below. But my eyes went straight to the machines—the monitors, IV poles, the gleaming crash cart waiting in the corner like a silent promise.

Nurses swarmed with practiced grace. Elena, lead nurse—dark hair in a severe ponytail—took charge, slicing away the ruined lace robe with trauma shears in quick, efficient snips. Another nurse slid an IV into Lila's vein with a soft prick, fluids already flowing.

A third pressed adhesive leads to her chest—three sticky pads, wires snaking to the monitor.

The machine woke with a steady, agonizing rhythm.

Beep… beep… beep…

Heart rate: 58.

Blood pressure: 85/55 and falling. O2 sat: 91%.

Dr. Rojas stormed in like a force of nature—mid-forties, sharp cheekbones, black hair threaded with silver, eyes that cataloged everything in a single sweep. No introductions. She went straight to Lila's bedside, gloved hands already moving.

"Talk."

The younger doctor rattled off vitals and history. Rojas listened while her fingers probed—ribs, abdomen, skull, pupils. "No obvious fractures. Bruising in multiple stages—fresh overlying older contusions. Yellow-green healing beneath new purple."

Her jaw tightened as she traced the patterns across Lila's ribs, arms, throat. "This isn't just tonight's fall. These are weeks old. Months." She looked up, gaze piercing me. "Who did this to her?"

"The man who threw her off the balcony tonight," I answered, voice flat and cold. "He's been doing it for years."

Something fierce flashed behind her professional mask. "How long?"

"Too goddamn long. Just do you job and save her."

She nodded once, mask snapping back into place. "Portable CT—now. Full body, with and without contrast. Neuro and cardio consults?"

"Dr. Morgan in one minute," Sandra called from the door. "Dr. Santiago in two."

The portable CT arrived first—a massive white ring on wheels. They positioned Lila carefully, slid her through the humming tunnel. The machine whirred and clicked, cross-sectional images blooming on the nearby screen in ghostly grays—every bone, every organ, every hidden wound laid bare.

Dr. Blake Morgan strode in—tall and lean, sandy hair silvering at the temples, neurologist's badge clipped to his coat. He didn't waste time on greetings, eyes locking immediately on the glowing screen as the brain scans loaded slice by slice.

"Hairline fracture, left temporal bone," he said, voice cool and precise. "Moderate cerebral edema—swelling throughout the parenchyma. No acute intraparenchymal hemorrhage, but…" He leaned in, tracing a faint shadow with his finger.

"Old subdural hematoma, left side. Weeks old, partially organized and resorbed. She's had significant head trauma before this."

My fists clenched until knuckles went white.

Of course she had.

Dr. Lucia arrived moments later—cardiologist, silver-haired, calm as deep water. She moved to the monitor, gently repositioning a lead on Lila's chest. "Persistent sinus bradycardia. Classic compensatory response to hypovolemic shock. We'll support it."

Rojas scrolled relentlessly through the full-body series, her expression growing storm-dark with every new image.

"Three fractured ribs, left side—two old and healed, one fresh. Old fractures right radius and ulna, poorly aligned—never properly reduced or casted."

Her voice grew quieter, more dangerous. "Grade-two splenic laceration with perisplenic hematoma. Contused left kidney. Liver lacerations in various stages of healing—scarring from repeated blunt trauma. This is chronic, systematic abuse. Months, if not years."

Each finding landed like a fresh blade between my ribs. I already knew them all—had seen them in my mind the moment I caught her falling—but hearing them spoken aloud made the horror real again.

I could have recited every scan myself. My embedded medical archives were generations ahead of their software; I could spot micro-hemorrhages they'd miss, predict cytokine cascades, calculate rebleeding risk from the old subdural down to the decimal.

I knew the splenic tear could shear further into grade-three and demand immediate splenectomy. I knew the edema could drive intracranial pressure past 40 mmHg and trigger uncal herniation within hours.

And none of it mattered.

All the knowledge in the world couldn't force her heart to beat harder or pull fluid from her bruised brain. It couldn't erase the years Dex had spent breaking her piece by piece.

Morgan tapped the screen again, highlighting the swollen temporal lobe. "This edema is the immediate threat. If ICP climbs, we risk transtentorial herniation—brainstem compression. Fatal within minutes if untreated."

"Treatment protocol?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"First-line: hyperosmolar therapy—mannitol bolus, then infusion. Hypertonic saline if needed. Head of bed thirty degrees, normocapnia." He met my eyes, unflinching. "If medical management fails, decompressive craniectomy. We remove a bone flap, give the brain room to swell without crushing itself."

"Prognosis?"

"Next six to twelve hours tell the story. If she wakes, if pressure stabilizes—good. If not…" He let the silence finish it.

Santiago glanced at the rhythm strip. "We'll push warmed fluids aggressively, monitor for rebound tachyarrhythmias. She's cold. Hypothermia worsens everything."

Nurse Elena hung a second liter of warmed crystalloid, then draped a forced-air warming blanket over Lila's bruised body, tucking it carefully around the monitors.

The room settled into the steady cadence of critical care.

Beep… beep… beep…

Heart rate holding at 56. Pressure creeping up—88 over 58. O2 sat inching to 94%.

Dr. Natalia Flores entered last—consulting trauma physician, younger, scrubs crisp. She reviewed the images on her tablet, face tightening.

"Multi-system injury on top of chronic abuse. Real risk of progressive organ dysfunction. Kidneys could slip into acute injury. Spleen could rupture fully. And with the TBI…" She looked to Rojas. "SICU after initial stabilization?"

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