Someone cuts away his shirt.
Someone else hangs blood.
Skye snaps, “Scalpel,” and a surgical tech slaps one into her palm without looking.
The vinyl walls tremble with the rumble of air handlers. LED lights reflect off Jackson’s skin, making him look pale, unreal, almost ghostlike.
I don’t let go.
Skye glances up once—just once—meeting my eyes.
“You can’t stay,” she says softly, but there’s steel under it.
Something breaks in my chest.
I lean close, my fingers brushing Jackson’s hairline, my breath trembling as the medical team transforms this makeshift tent into a lifeline, but I don’t step back.
Around me, they move with brutal calm.
Purpose.
Skill.
Velocity.
I don’t know who they are.
I don’t know why they were waiting.
I don’t know how any of this was prepared in advance.
But one thing becomes painfully, terrifyingly clear as they begin working to drag Jackson back from whatever edge he’s slipping toward …
This isn’t a hospital team.
This is something else.
Something built for war.
And they are fighting for him now.
A hand lands on my shoulder. Heavy. Immovable.
I spin, ready to fight.
It’s Ghost.
“You need to let them work,” he says gently.
“He needs me.”
“He needs a surgeon. You need to decontaminate.”
I look down at myself.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. I’m covered in him.
Jackson’s blood soaks my hands up to the wrists. It stains the front of my tactical vest. It’s smeared on my pants. I smell of Halon gas, sweat, and copper.
