I hadn’t even checked my phone since I’d started shift. Didn’t want to. Didn’t trust what I might, or might not, find there.
“ETA two minutes,” someone called.
The air changed. Everyone felt it. That shift from waiting to impact. And then I heard it. Not the siren. The engine. Deep. Rolling. Familiar. My heart kicked hard, my head snapping towards the ambulance doors before I could stop myself.
No.
No, that wasn’t…
The ambulance doors burst open, paramedics already moving, voices sharp, controlled. The trolley rolled in fast, the body on it still. Leather. A cut. Patches on the front. Black and white. Familiar. A silver badge with three crowned skulls.
My breath caught, the world narrowing down to that single point as everything else fell away. For a second, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. My eyes dragged over the body, searching, desperate, terrified.
It wasn’t him.
The relief hit hard. Sudden. Violent. My knees almost gave. Air rushed back into my lungs like I’d been drowning, my chest heaving as the noise of the department slammed back into me all at once.
Not him.
Thank God.
Then, just as quickly, something else followed. Cold. Sharp. Because it was someone. One of them. And I was standing there, relieved it wasn’t Ryan.
“Dr Mercer?” someone called.
“Let’s move,” I heard myself say, already stepping forward, my hands finding the rails of the trolley as we guided him into the bay.
“Male, mid-thirties,” one of the paramedics rattled off. “High-speed RTC. Thrown from the bike. GCS eight at scene, dropped to six en route. Airway compromised. OPA in situ. Suspected chest trauma, decreased air entry on the left. Lost consciousness on the way in.”
“Okay, we’ll take over.”
I was already working.
“Airway first. Get me suction. Let’s prep for intubation. I want anaesthetics now.”
Gloves snapped into place as I leaned in, assessing, eyes moving quickly. Blood at the temple. Uneven rise of the chest. Wrong.
“Breathing. High-flow oxygen. What are the sats? Chest ultrasound now. Possible pneumothorax.”
My voice was steady. Controlled. Like it always was.
“Circulation. Two large-bore cannulas. Crossmatch. Let’s get fluids running. And I want a trauma call now.”
Around me, the team moved fast. Efficient. Practised. And I didn’t stop. Not until the noise shifted. Raised voices behind me, growing louder. Boots on linoleum. Multiple. Closer than they should be.
“You can’t all come through here. Sir!”
The footsteps didn’t slow. And I didn’t need to look to know. The bay filled at the edges, bodies pressing in where there shouldn’t be space, leather and presence in my peripheral vision. Security were already moving, hands out, voices firm but uncertain.
“Gentlemen, you need to wait outside…”
Security’s pleas were ignored. My chest tightened, but my hands didn’t falter, still working, still focused on the man in front of me, even as everything else threatened to spiral.
“Ryan…”
His name escaped before I could stop it. But it got him. The atmosphere changing. I didn’t look up fully, didn’t break from what I was doing, but I felt him there. Closer than the others.
“Ryan,” I said again, sharper now, controlled. Professional. “You need to step back.”
