"What?"
"Against medical advice. I don't care. Discharge me." I look at Marcus. "Please. I need to see her."
Marcus runs a hand over his face, something dark flickering in his eyes. "You're insane."
"I know. Will you help me or not?"
He looks at Lucy. She closes her eyes, clearly fighting an internal battle between friend-responsibility and friend-solidarity.
"Fuck," Lucy mutters. "Fine. But if you die, I'm killing you."
• • •
Two hours later, I'm in a wheelchair being pushed out of the hospital by Marcus while Lucy argues with the discharge nurse about liability waivers and potential lawsuits if I collapse in the parking lot.
The paparazzi are waiting. Of course they are. Flashes explode the second we hit the doors, white-hot and blinding even through my sunglasses. Shouted questions assault from all sides—"Alena, how are you feeling?" "Was it a suicide attempt?" "Is it true about Drogo Nightshade?" "Are you getting treatment for your drinking?"
Marcus moves like a battering ram, wheelchair rolling fast, one massive hand up to block cameras. "Back off!" he barks, voice low and dangerous—the same tone he used in the pit right before he destroyed someone.
They don't back off. They never do.
Lucy catches up, gets in front of us, yelling at photographers to give us space, her voice shrill with protective fury. We make it to Marcus's car—a beat-up Land Rover that smells like gym socks and determination.
He lifts me into the passenger seat like I weigh nothing, muscles flexing under his shirt. Buckles me in withsurprising gentleness for someone with hands that have broken bones for a living. Lucy folds the wheelchair, shoves it in the back with more force than necessary.
"This is a terrible idea," Lucy says from the back seat as Marcus starts the engine.
"Noted," I mutter.
Marcus pulls into traffic, driving with the controlled aggression of someone who's very good at violence and very careful not to use it unless necessary. "You really gonna rebuild that car?"
"If it's salvageable."
"And if it's not?"
"Then I'll mourn properly. With something other than vodka." The admission slips out before I can stop it.
Lucy leans forward between the seats. "You know this is mental, right? You just survived a crash and you're rushing to see the wreckage?"
"I need to know if she's savable," I say. "I need to know if something I broke can still be fixed."
The silence that follows is heavy with meaning.
Then Marcus, quiet: "You're not just talking about the car."
"No," I admit. "I'm not."
We drive to the impound lot in North London. Chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Guard shack. Rows of mangled vehicles waiting for insurance adjusters or scrappers—metal corpses lined up like bodies in a morgue.
The guard recognizes me—of course he does. Everyone does now. "Miss Lupus." He nods, trying not to stare at the cast, the bruises blooming purple across my face. "Wasn't expecting you so soon. You alright?"
"Where's my car?"
He points. "Row seven. But ma'am, it's—"
I'm already wheeling myself toward it before he finishes, good arm working the wheel, ignoring the protest from my ribs.
Marcus catches up, takes over pushing me faster. And then I see her.
