“Probable concussion,” Doc said while working, his voice flat as if he were reciting a grocery list. “Can’t tell without an MRI, which I’m guessing isn’t an option.” He didn’t wait for a reply, just kept working, pressing the stapler to Lyric’s skin. Each heavy metallicthunkof the stapler rang louder than it should have, the noise jagged enough to make my jaw clench.
Doc finally finished, applying a thin layer of antibiotic cream before taping fresh gauze over thewound. He grabbed a bottle of pills from his bag and tossed them toward Killian. “Watch for nausea, vomiting, pupils going weird, dizziness, loss of coordination—any of that shit, call me. Call me in a week if you need more meds. That’ll cost you five a visit.” He paused, tilting his head, eyes flicking to the wound before adding coldly, “Ten if there’s infection.”
Jamie stepped close, his posture wound tight like a spring, his voice dangerous as he flicked his lighter. “You keep adding numbers, Doc. Maybe I’ll start adding a fire charge to your visits.”
Doc didn’t flinch. His expression didn’t even twitch. There was a deadness behind his eyes, as if nothing Jamie could say would make a dent. He held Jamie’s glare, silent, unmoved. No one knew his story—where he came from, what had hollowed him out—but whatever it was, it had stripped him of empathy. Cold. Vicious. Uncaring. A man who worked like a machine, with all clinical precision and no heart.
Then he left.
Gone.
And all that was left was blood, bullet wounds, and an unconscious man in the bed who we may or may not kill as soon as he got better.
THREE
Lyric
I was backin the beautiful middle-of-fucking-nowhere ranch in Montana.
The air was cool, sweet, crisp—and the stillness was absolute, too perfect. The sun hung low over the hills, casting long golden stripes across the fields. Mist clung to the grass, swirling around my boots as I stood by the fence. The corral stretched out wide in front of me, the wooden rails weathered and familiar under my fingertips. Birds called from the trees, the sound distant and peaceful.
My favorite mare, Button, stood on the other side of the fence, ears twitching as she watched me. Her rich chestnut coat caught the early sun and her warm breath puffed in the morning chill. I reached for her,wanting to feel the velvet softness of her muzzle under my hand.
“Lyric.”
A voice called behind me. Probably Lucy. Calling me in for breakfast again. Persistent as always.
“Lyric.”
I smiled faintly, but I didn’t turn. I just wanted one moment longer with Button. My arm stretched further, fingers brushing the air.
“Lyric.”
“He’ll open his stitches.”
The voice grew closer now. Urgent. It wouldn’t stop. I tried to move, but my feet wouldn’t cooperate; they were cemented into the dirt. My legs trembled, but I couldn’t lift them. I’d forgotten how to move.
I reached for Button again?—
And she was gone.
Gone as if she’d never been there.
In her place was Lucy.
A monster, shifting, extended claws. And then Lucy was dead. Sprawled across the dirt, her hair fanned out like a dark halo. Blood pooled beneath her in slow, unnatural ripples, the color too dark—almost black, with a strange iridescent sheen shimmering like oil under the unreal light. The metallic tang filledmy lungs, and my head screamed at me to run, but my legs stayed frozen.
I knew I had to move. I had to run. But I couldn’t.
Something was around me now—tight, heavy, wrapping me up and pulling me in. The world warped, sounds stretching unnaturally like distant echoes underwater. Time slowed, each second dragging long and distorted, as if the nightmare wanted me trapped inside it forever. Arms? Restraints? My mind spun. Was I caught in barbed wire? I struggled, twisting, but the grip only got stronger.
Someone had found me.
I was going to die.
“Stop moving!” someone shouted, rough and urgent. It wasn’t Lucy. It wasn’t anyone I knew. The words slammed into me, and panic surged. My chest heaved, but I couldn’t get enough air.
I was scared. Terrified.
