Prologue
Desmond
Anya Volkov.
The name had been passed to me in pieces over the last few days — transfer, resident, day shift couldn’t keep her, needed “a change of pace.” The kind of phrasing administration used when things were a little more difficult than they wanted to let on to.
She wasn’t going to find anything slower on nights.
Nights weren’t quieter.
They were just darker.
And darker meant people waited longer before they came in. It meant worse injuries, worse decisions, worse outcomes. It meant chaos that didn’t announce itself until it was already standing in front of you, bleeding out on the tile.
Nights didn’t ease you in.
They exposed you.
From across the department, I spotted her trailing behind Levin like a shadow that hadn’t quite decided it belonged to him. Curly red hair twisted into a loose knot that looked like it had been done hours ago and forgotten, shoulders pulled in tight as if she was trying to make herself smaller in a place that didn’t allow for it.
She looked… breakable. Frazzled.
Too quiet. Too unsure. The exact type of resident that got eaten alive before they ever found their footing.
I’d seen her before, in passing — hovering at the edges during shift changes, tucked into corners and triage with a chart held a little too close to her chest, like it might shield her from being noticed. I’d never seen her in a trauma bay. Never seen her hands bloodied. Never seen her tested.
That told me enough.
I turned down the hall toward Central 3, already writing her off in the way I’d learn to do in a place like this. Not everyone was built for nights.
“Will I present to you, or to Dr. Vaughn?” Her voice stopped me. Not fully — but enough that my pace slowed, my attention catching on something I hadn’t expected.
It didn’t match. I’d built something else for her in my head. Something softer. Thinner. A voice that would waver under pressure.
This wasn’t that. There was weight to it. A low, steady cadence that settled somewhere in my chest before I could ignore it. The sound tugged at something inside of me. Something annoying and primitive and distracting. I didn’twantto pay attention to her, Dr. Volkov just happened to be on my shift tonight.
“Either,” Levin answered easily. “Technically Vaughn runs nights, but I’m around, too.”
I glanced over without meaning to.Fuck,get it together Vaughn. But I didn’t pull my gaze away. She nodded, quick and tight, fingers twisting together at her waist — nervous energy she hadn’t figured out how to hide yet.
A quiet laugh slipped out of me, more reflex than intention as I turned away again. I shook my head, shaking the image of her fiery hair and uneasy spirit out of my head.
Yeah.
Nights were going to eat her alive.
I checked my patients. Reviewed charts. Kept the machinerunning the way it always ran — controlled chaos, predictable in its unpredictability. The kind of rhythm you either learned to live inside or got crushed by.
By the time the night split open, I’d almost forgotten about her.
Almost.
“I need hands in here!” Levin’s voice cut across the department, sharp enough to stop conversation mid-sentence, loud enough to pull every available body toward it without question.
Everything shifted.
I turned on instinct, already moving before the thought had fully formed, gloves snapping free from the box on the wall as I rounded the corner into the trauma bay. Surefootedness carried me to the sound of the worst day of someone’s life.
