Blood.
That's the copper smell.
Blood.
Gunnar's blood.
They lift him onto the table, and I see the full extent of the damage for the first time.
His shirt is gone—cut away, probably, to assess the wound.
His torso is smeared with red.
The knife handle protrudes from his left side, obscene and wrong.
The makeshift bandage around it is completely saturated.
Blood pools beneath him on the steel table.
Drips onto the floor.
So much blood.
How can anyone lose that much blood and survive?
"Ingrid." Vail's voice cuts through my panic. "I need you to stay back. Against the wall. Can you do that?"
I nod.
I can't speak, so I move to the corner.
I press myself against the cold concrete and watch.
Vail and Aesir work—exposing the wound, checking vitals, hooking up an IV.
Gunnar lies motionless through all of it.
Too still.
Too quiet.
"We need to stabilize him before Reynolds gets here," Aesir says. "He's lost too much blood."
"I know." Vail's hands are steady, but I can see the tremor in her jaw. The tension in her shoulders. "Start the IV. Push fluids. We need to get his pressure up."
"His pulse is thready?—"
"I know what his pulse is. Just do what I tell you."
Sharp.
Scared.
Underneath all that professionalism, she's terrified.
Just like me.
"Vail—" Dad’s in the doorway now, his clothes stained with Gunnar's blood. "Is he?—"
