Cassian does not need to be told twice. He lifts his hands from Talon’s chest and steps back a fraction without breaking his stance.
I press the paddles to Talon’s chest and discharge the shock.
His body jolts. The monitor spikes wildly, flatlines for a heartbeat of a heartbeat, then resolves into slow, stumbling complexes.
“Again,” I say, resuming the bagging.
Cassian returns to compressions on his own.
Talon’s heart right now is like a stubborn machinery unit after a power outage; sometimes you have to kick it more than once before it remembers its job. So that’s exactly what we do. We kick it.
Forty seconds later, the jagged rhythm begins to even out. The complexes grow stronger, steadier, less like a dying animal thrashing and more like something finding its footing. The machine tentatively assigns it a rate.
Forty. Fifty. Sixty.
“Stop,” I say.
Cassian lifts his hands. I keep ventilating, reaching two fingers to Talon’s neck with my free hand, searching for the throb of something beneath the skin.
Pulse.
There it is.
“Welcome back,” I murmur.
I lower the bag, watching his chest now for spontaneous effort. For a moment there’s nothing. Then, like a glitch resolving into movement, his ribcage twitches. He drags in a shallow, ragged breath around the mask, and his eyelids flicker.
Cassian exhales with a sigh. To my surprise, I feel something loosen in my own chest, too.
“Is he—“ Cassian starts.
“Yeah,” I say.
I pull the mask aside, allowing Talon to fight for his own air. It will be uneven at first. But it will be his.
Talon draws a second breath, deeper this time, then coughs weakly.
“There,” I say quietly. “Alive.”
His fingers twitch near the railing. Cassian is on him in an instant, wrapping a hand around his wrist.
“Talon,” he says. “Can you hear me?”
“Give him a moment,” I say, stepping back. “His body just went through hell.”
“Right,” Cassian murmurs. But he doesn’t look at me when he says it. He gently lets go of Talon’s hand, steps away, and paces the room in slow, restless loops, his hands landing on the back of his neck as he stares at the ceiling.
After a couple of minutes, he drags a mobile chair close to Talon and drops into it. I look at him and find something I didn’t expect to see there.
“You did great back there,” I tell him. His mismatched eyes meet mine, wary, like he’s waiting for the catch. “Kept a cool head. Didn’t hesitate.”
“Well, the fucker’s doing this because of me.”
I smile.
“Would feel too bad if he died on you?” I ask. “Thought you’re accustomed to murdering people.”
“I only kill those who deserve it.”
