Too much.
Her arm was secured, wrapped hastily in pressure dressings already soaked through. The smell of iron hit the air as hissurgical team moved around her, voices overlapping in rapid succession.
“BP dropping -”
“We’re losing flow -”
“Where’s vascular?!”
“I’m here,” Brew said, already moving.
He reached the gurney in three strides.
And then -
He saw her.
For a fraction of a second, time broke.
Not stopped.
Not slowed.
Just… shifted.
Her face was pale beneath streaks of blood, golden hair matted against her temple, lashes resting too still against skin that shouldn’t have looked so fragile under trauma lights.
But it wasn’t that.
It was something else.
Something he couldn’t name.
Something that had no place here in the cold, stark OR.
“Dr. Clay -”
The voice snapped him back.
Focus. Always focus.
“Vitals?”
“Unstable. We’re fighting to maintain pressure.”
“Sedation?”
“Fading.”
Brew’s gaze dropped to her hand.
And the world went silent.
Damage this severe didn’t whisper.
It screamed.
Crushed tissue. Torn vessels. Bone compromised. Skin barely holding what remained together. Her hand was on the edge of being lost.
