Can you find me? [AU] (Chapter 1: Part 3)
Previous | Masterlist | Next (coming soon)
The engine was still running.
Guy sat in the driver's seat, hands fixed on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead as rain ticked softly against the windshield. The wipers moved in their slow, deliberate arc. Left. Right. Left. Right.
He didn't change the setting.
Outside, the parking lot was empty and back to gray, washed thin by rain and early light. The tower loomed ahead of him, glass catching the sunrise in precise, vertical bands. Everything was where it should be. Aligned. Familiar.
There was a shape on the ground in front of the car.
He told himself, briefly, stupidly, that it was debris. A bag. A shadow distorted by water and light. That made sense. That fit. Parking lots accumulated things overnight.
The wipers passed again, dragging water across the glass and smearing the outline into something unmistakably human. An arm. A shoulder. A body lying where bodies did not belong.
Guy's fingers tightened around the wheel.
The engine's hum filled the car, steady and useless. It grated against his nerves. He reached out and shut it off with a sharp press of the button. The sudden silence was worse.
Rain sounded louder without the engine. Messier.
Guy opened the door and stepped out.
Cold water soaked immediately through the leather of his shoes. He noticed. Filed it away. Irritating, but secondary. His attention fixed itself on the man sprawled on the pavement, rain darkening his clothes, a backpack half open at his side.
Guy stood there for a second too long, brain refusing to supply the next instruction. This wasn't on any schedule. There was no protocol for this exact scenario, not in any binder, not in any training he respected.
He crouched, careful not to kneel. His trousers were expensive. The thought surfaced uninvited and he hated it immediately.
"Shit," he muttered, then tightened his jaw. "-damn it."
The man lay at an awkward angle, tongue slightly out, rain running along the curve of his face. His chest rose and fell, unevenly. Debris clung to his clothes in a way that felt accusatory, as if the ground itself were documenting the incident.
Guy reached out, stopped himself, recalibrated.
Physical contact was not something he did. Not socially. Not professionally. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.
He pressed two fingers to the man's neck, just as the first aid course had demonstrated years ago, training he'd dismissed at the time as excessive.
A pulse. Fast. Uneven. But present.
Guy exhaled sharply, breath fogging in the cool air. The relief hit him hard enough to make his head spin. He straightened immediately, as if posture alone could reassert control.
Rain soaked through his socks as he paced once, then again, hand lifting toward his hair before stopping short. He wiped his palm against his coat with visible distaste.
No cameras in the parking lot. He knew that. He'd approved the security budget himself. It was early. Visibility was poor. Anyone passing would've seen nothing more than rain, headlights, motion.
The thought was horrifyingly efficient.
The man would wake up. Or someone else would find him. Guy Business would drive home, disinfect the car, restore order, and this would become an unfortunate anomaly that never touched his life.
His hand found the car door and stopped.
The man groaned softly, a reflexive sound, and shifted his head an inch to the side. Rainwater slid along his eyelashes. Something in Guy's chest tightened, sharp, unnecessary, inconvenient and deeply.. Human.
Guy closed his eyes for half a second, breathing out through his nose as if forcing the feeling back into its proper place. This wasn't morality. He refused to dignify it with that word. This was risk assessment. Probability. Consequence.
He knelt this time, abandoning the trousers entirely. Water seeped into the fabric immediately. He ignored it. He slid one arm under the man's shoulders and braced himself. The weight surprised him, dead weight, uncooperative, wrong. Guy grunted, shoes slipping slightly on the slick pavement.
This was unsanitary. Irreversible.
He dragged the man toward the car inch by inch, old muscles burning, rain soaking them both. The back door opened with a sharp click. Guy maneuvered the man inside, arranging him awkwardly across the seat, adjusting until his head wouldn't loll too far to one side.
He paused, looking at him.
Then he turned back into the rain and gathered the scattered belongings, backpack, a helmet, and finally the suction cup lying in a shallow puddle. He hesitated only a moment before picking it up. Leaving anything behind felt dangerous.
Everything went into the car. The door shut.
Then again, harder, sealing the decision inside.
Guy stood there for a moment, rain streaking down his face, breathing harder than he liked, pulse far too fast for a man who prided himself on control.
"This," he said aloud, voice tight and precise, "is a mistake."
He got into the driver's seat and started the engine.
The wipers resumed their slow, infuriating rhythm. He adjusted the setting immediately. Better.
Rain streaked across the windshield, warping the city lights into something unfocused and wrong. He disliked it intensely.
The man in the back seat groaned softly and fell still again. Guy's grip tightened on the wheel.
The windshield wipers swept back and forth with metronomic precision. Left. Right. Left. Right.
Now, it was far too fast.
Guy adjusted the setting without looking down. Rain streaked across the glass in long, warped lines, pulling the city lights into something smeared and unfocused. He disliked it immediately.
The road was slick but manageable. Traffic was sparse. Good. Variables reduced. His hands stayed at ten and two, grip firm, posture correct. The car responded exactly as it should. At least something was behaving.
A sound came from the back seat.
Guy's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. The man shifted slightly, a low groan slipping out before he went still again, head lolling toward the door. Alive. Still alive.
Guy reminded himself of it deliberately, as if stating a fact would stabilize it.
Hospital. That part was nonnegotiable. Emergencies required professionals. He could delegate this much. Everything beyond that would require structure.
What would he say had happened?
Guy exhaled slowly through his nose and began assembling the explanation the same way he approached any problem; methodically, from the ground up.
That was clean. Passive. It placed Guy adjacent to the incident, not inside it.
"I found him in the parking lot," Guy murmured, testing the sentence. His voice sounded strange in the enclosed space of the car. Too loud. Too present.
"Unconscious. I brought him in."
Reasonable. Efficient. Civic minded. Insufficient.
Why hadn't he called an ambulance?
Why transport him himself?
Ambulances took time. He had acted quickly. Decisively. That framed him as responsible, not reckless.
"I didn't see what happened," he added under his breath. "Just the aftermath."
That allowed for unknowns. Rain. Poor lighting. An unseen driver. A faceless cause without a name or license plate.
The reflection of the tower slid past the side mirror, warped by water. Guy's pulse jumped.
"I was leaving work early," he tried, then shook his head once. No. That invited questions.
"I was arriving," he said instead. "I work nearby."
True. Technically. Truths bent easier than lies.
Another sound from the back seat, softer this time. Guy's eyes flicked to the mirror again before he could stop himself. For a brief, irritating moment, something like guilt surfaced.
Emotions complicated narratives.
He was just a witness, that's all. Witnesses were neutral. Witnesses leave.
And yet the thought arrived slowly, unwelcome but logical. If he stayed, if he appeared invested, concerned, consistent, scrutiny would soften. People trusted familiarity. They trusted people who didn't disappear once questions began.
Guy had built an empire on perception.
His hands steadied on the wheel as the idea settled.
He would stay. He would answer questions. He would be helpful.
The hospital appeared sooner than expected, its lights harsh against the street. Guy slowed too late, turned too sharply, and pulled into the emergency drop off lane crookedly.
He left the engine running.
The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, spilling fluorescent light onto the wet pavement. Too bright. Too white.
The smell hit him immediately; antiseptic, alcohol, sterile and sharp. Nothing like the citrus reassurance of his own products. This was not controlled cleanliness. This was reactive. Clinical.
"Help," Guy said, then corrected himself. "I need assistance. There's an unconscious man in my car."
Everything accelerated after that. A gurney appeared. Gloves snapped into place. The back door of his car opened. Rainwater streaked onto tile as they lifted the man out with practiced efficiency.
"What happened?" a nurse asked, already checking vitals.
Guy watched her hands. Focused on them. Not on the way the man's head lolled. Not on the fact that his own hands were trembling faintly at his sides.
"I found him," Guy said. "In the parking lot. He was already injured."
"Did you see what hit him?"
"No." The truth, trimmed cleanly.
They wheeled the gurney inside. Guy followed without being told to, which surprised him. No one stopped him. No one questioned his presence. That should have been reassuring. It was not.
"Sir, do you know if he lost consciousness before you arrived?" another nurse asked.
"Yes," Guy said, then hesitated just long enough to soften it. "I believe so."
They nodded and moved on.
At intake, the pace slowed. The questions changed. Administrative. Dangerous.
Guy stood slightly to the side of the counter, mind still several steps behind the present moment, replaying timelines, angles, alternatives. He was already running damage control scenarios when the clerk spoke again.
The question barely registered at first. It passed through the haze of fluorescent light and antiseptic smell, filed incorrectly, like background noise.
The word left his mouth before the meaning caught up.
A half second later, realization hit; sharp, belated. His posture stiffened, breath hitching as the weight of what he'd just said settled over him like an ill fitting coat.
Uncomfortable. Incorrect. Fixable.
He should have corrected it. Clarified. Opened his mouth and said no, I'm not-
The clerk was already nodding, already writing.
"All right," she said briskly. "What's his name?"
The moment passed. Sealed. Correcting it now would draw attention. Questions. A pause in momentum. Guy swallowed and leaned into the counter, eyes flicking to the clutter beside her.
Envelopes. Clipboards. One piece of mail lay face up, a name printed in bold black letters.
"Craig," Guy said instead.
She didn't look up. "Last name?"
"Raesens." It came out smoother than he expected. Neutral. Respectable. The kind of name that didn't invite scrutiny.
She paused, pen hovering. "Date of birth?"
Guy's thoughts snagged. Static. "I'm not certain," he said carefully. "We're.. not very close."
"That's fine," she replied, already filling in a placeholder. "We'll update it later."
Later. The word lodged itself somewhere tight and unpleasant.
"And you are..?" she asked, glancing up at him for the first time.
The silence stretched just enough for her to fill it herself.
"No," Guy said immediately. Too fast. He forced himself to slow, recalibrate. "No."
She nodded once. "Uncle, then?"
There it was again, another opening to correct, to step back, to dismantle the assumption before it stacked any higher.
The clerk smiled faintly, satisfied. "All right. We'll list you as next of kin for now. Emergency contact?"
Guy recited his own phone number without pause, the way he recited quarterly revenue figures. Familiar. Reliable.
The nurse looked up from the gurney. "We'll take him back now. You can wait here, sir."
Guy stepped back as they wheeled Craig Raesens away. The doors swung shut, separating him from the man and yet binding them together more tightly than before.
Only when the hallway emptied did it fully register.
He hadn't corrected them. He hadn't stopped it. He had allowed it.
Guy Business sat down slowly in a plastic chair, one meant for people who had family in hospitals and stared straight ahead, hands folded neatly in his lap. This was already beyond damage control.
And for the first time in years, he had no idea how to clean it up.
TLDR: Guy runs someone over and lies to hospital staff, unintentionally.
germansingergirl
kaledo-art
origamiaround
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
