Charlotte didn’t hesitate. “They’ll want him back.”
Ethan entered just as the words left her mouth. “If we’re making noise, I’m flying in a rapid response team from LA. We’ll need them.”
Noah came in right after, tablet in hand, eyes hard with that familiar edge of protective fury. “If Monroe’s watching from a distance, we’re going to make her regret it.”
Then Brad stepped in, calm but coiled. “I called in a quiet detail. Two unmarked SUVs in the lot, eyes on the ER and every exit. I know we’re trying to keep it contained, but I won’t let them get close. Tristan, I want an attending physician with him around the clock.”
Talk shifted again—Sophie, the implications. Noah looked at Charlotte. “What do you think?”
She dropped her head for a second, just long enough to gather herself. Sophie’s safety first. Always.
Sophie hadn’t worked a shift inside the hospital since the night everything changed—years ago now, but still too close. She’d been brutally assaulted during a shift in the ER, pinned down in a treatment room. Beaten, violated, left in a cold ditch, barely alive hours later. The physical injuries had healed, mostly. But the rest—the hypervigilance, the panic in narrow hallways, the way her breath turned sharp at the sound of a gurney wheel—those had never fully gone.
Charlotte and Tristan had promised her then, through clenched teeth and helpless tears, that she’d never have to work in this hospital again. Not unless she chose it. Not unless it felt safe. Even now, with Alex’s life hanging in the balance, that promise felt heavier than anything.
Tristan caught her gaze and nodded. “I’ll talk to her. We’ve already arranged ER coverage—James and I can rotate shifts here.”
James didn’t look up from the scans. “I’m not leaving him.”
Charlotte looked at the man lying in the bed. His face finally looked calm. No twitching. No gasps. Just stillness. And that scared her more than the thrashing.
James continued, “I’ll jam the signal. Try to keep him alive. But they know he’s free...”
“They’ll come,” Ethan finished. “And we’ll be ready.”
Then James added, almost to himself, “If they built in a failsafe, it could destroy his brain. Removing these things is like defusing a bomb.”
That landed hard. No one said anything.
Charlotte stood slowly, legs numb, and leaned over Alex. She brushed his hair back, the way she used to after long days—when he’d come in exhausted, and she was the only one who knew how to calm him down. She wiped the sweat from his brow with a cool cloth and whispered, “You didn’t come this far to be taken again. Or to lose your life.”
Behind her, Noah's voice cracked—soft, almost reverent. “None of the other survivors had these implants. Alex isn’t just a patient. He’s the blueprint. He’s evidence. If we get him through this, if we pull them out without killing him, we don’t just get Alex back.”
Tristan nodded. “We get proof. Of everything.”
Charlotte turned to James. “Then we finish what Elias started.” She didn’t cry. Not now. Not in front of them. But her chest burned with it.
Under heavy security, they began the transfer. The team moved like clockwork—silent, efficient, tense. And through it all, Charlotte kept her hand in his. Even as they wheeled him toward the OR, even as the fluorescent lights passed overhead like a countdown.
Come back to me, she thought, not saying it aloud.
Because if he did—if he could—she’d never let him go again.
The room wascold and sterile, humming with quiet dread. Harsh surgical lights illuminated Alex Marcel’s still form, sweat gleaming on his exposed skin. His lips were pale.
“His temp is still high. Where the hell is the spinal tap result?” James demanded.
“We started him on ceftriaxone when we saw the punctures along the spine. The results populated on the system. I just ordered vancomycin,” Tristan said. “Still no word on what he was drugged with.”
“This is going to be a long surgery. Tell everyone to get some sleep. Put up the latest scans.” James stared at them. “Damn it.”
“What?” Tristan asked.
He pointed at a blob near a wire. “It’s an abscess. They were sloppy when they did this to him.” James exhaled. “Alright, let’s do this.”
James left the OR to scrub. Returning, he stared at his patient. Alex’s fingers were twitching. “He’s having seizures.” He looked at the anesthesiologist. “Put him under.”
Tristan watched the heart monitor displaying an unsteady rhythm—beep… beep…beep beep…beep. “James, his heart is struggling.”
