Warning: this story contains some adults content mention of blood and murder and strong language. Read it on your discretion
Word Count: ~8,000
Author note: I created a one shot story about two favorite tv shows that I like " The resident" and "Will Trent" . I made a crossover since both shows are implemented in Atlanta, Georgia. You can share and like my work but don't steal it and make it your own. I was inspired by an episode of Will Trent in season 3 .
The storm rolled into Atlanta like a freight train, darkening the sky and flooding the streets. Power outages flickered in various neighborhoods, emergency services stretched thin. But within the halls of Chastain Park Memorial Hospital, the real storm was just beginning.
Special Agent Y/N Hawkins of the GBI stepped through the sliding glass doors of the hospital with her partner Will Trent at her side and APD detective Angela Polaski following close behind. Y/N's dark hair was pulled into a braid, GBI windbreaker zipped high. A quiet intensity radiated from her. As always, she and Will moved in perfect sync, not needing words to communicate. Their minds already raced ahead.
"We need eyes on Lena Santiago," Y/N said, glancing at her phone. "She’s the nurse who reported the incident. She's the key to this whole thing."
Angela frowned. "And now she’s gone off the grid."
Y/N’s gaze hardened. "That’s not a coincidence."
---
Inside Chastain, Dr. Conrad Hawkins was already several patients deep into his shift. He glanced up from a chart just in time to see his wife walk in with Will and Angie, their faces set in stone.
“Hey,” he called softly, walking over. “Storm chasers now?”
Y/N barely cracked a smile. “Just chasing something uglier than lightning.”
She pecked him on the cheek quickly. Conrad's brow furrowed at the tension in her shoulders.
“GBI business?” he asked.
“Something like that,” Will said cryptically, already scanning the area.
---
Elsewhere in the hospital, Amanda Wagner arrived with Evelyn Mitchell and Ava Barnes in tow. The three retired powerhouses weren’t exactly the trio you’d expect in a murder investigation—but they weren’t the type to sit on the sidelines either.
“Ava,” Amanda muttered, “tell me again why you’re tagging along?”
Ava smirked. “My daughter’s working this case. And Faith’s working it too. Like hell I’m missing the action.”
Evelyn patted Amanda on the shoulder. “Admit it. You missed us.”
Amanda didn’t answer.
---
Just after noon, the storm struck hard, and Chastain initiated lockdown protocol.
Y/N, Will, and Angie were in the elevator heading toward the third floor when it shuddered to a halt.
“Please don’t tell me we’re stuck,” Angie said.
The flickering overhead lights blinked out and came back with a pop.
Then something hit the elevator roof with a sickening thump.
A red, viscous substance began dripping through the seam in the ceiling panel.
“Blood,” Y/N whispered.
Will’s expression didn’t change, but his jaw clenched.
Y/N stepped into action. “Angie, help me up. Will, boost me. I need to see what’s up there."
“You sure?” Angie asked.
“Yes.”
Y/N popped the panel open. The copper tang hit her nostrils instantly.
“Dammit.”
“What is it?” Will called.
Y/N looked down, pale. “It’s Lena.”
The elevator doors opened at that moment, and they sprinted to the nurses' station.
Conrad, Nic, Devon, Faith, Amanda, Ava, Evelyn, Dr. Bell—all gathered.
Y/N, out of breath, looked at her mother. "She’s dead. Lena—the witness. She was on top of the elevator."
Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me—?”
“Yes,” Will and Y/N said at once.
“The killer is here,” Y/N confirmed. “In the hospital. During lockdown.”
Nic clutched Devin’s arm. "What does this mean?"
Will, Y/N, and Angie replied in eerie unison: "We’re trapped with a serial killer."
---
The team split up. Will and Y/N’s group: Ava, Evelyn, Conrad, Devon, Nic, Faith, and Dr. Bell, who insisted he had a right to know what was happening in his hospital. Amanda led the second group with Michael Ormewood and Angie.
Faith pulled Nic aside briefly. “Try not to let them freak you out.”
“Who?”
She nodded toward Will and Y/N, who were already speaking rapidly in shorthand, both sketching timelines, theories, connecting clues.
“Those two,” Faith said. “They move like one brain. It's spooky. Welcome to my life.”
Y/N and Will began to reconstruct the timeline. Conrad watched as his wife moved through the halls like a force of nature, not a trace of hesitation in her movements.
“You’ve never seen her work before?” Faith asked.
“Not like this,” Conrad admitted.
Ava and Evelyn, meanwhile, traded theories with Nic and Devon, almost cheerily.
“I forgot how fun this could be,” Ava said, eyes alight.
---
Hours passed. The group reconvened in the stairwell.
Y/N knelt beside a trail of smudged shoe prints.
“Blood. Fresh,” she murmured.
Will crouched beside her. “There’s something else. Look—”
He plucked a tiny metal pin from the corner where the stairwell met the wall. A brass flag pin.
Faith stepped forward. “Oh no. I know that look.”
“What look?” Conrad asked.
“The look they get right before dropping a bomb.”
Y/N turned to the group slowly.
“That’s a DA’s flag pin. Only worn by state prosecutors.”
Faith took a deep breath. “You’re not saying—?”
Will nodded grimly. “The DA. He’s the killer.”
Gasps rippled through the group.
Ava stepped forward, stunned. “Why would the DA—?”
Y/N answered, grim. “Every woman we traced—each of them rejected him. Lena’s friend—his first victim—turned him down after he gave her the creeps. Lena knew. That’s why she was killed.”
“We’ve been chasing a cold case killer and a predator hiding in plain sight,” Will added.
Faith swore. “We need to move. Now.”
---
They sprinted back to the main lobby. Amanda, Angie, and Michael raised their weapons at the sight of Will and Y/N entering with urgency.
“What is it now?” Amanda asked.
Will and Y/N pointed in unison. “It’s him. The DA. He’s the killer.”
A commotion erupted behind them. Screams.
The DA emerged, blood smeared on his coat, holding nurse Ada Moreno hostage.
Everyone froze.
Amanda’s voice was firm. “Don’t do this.”
The DA laughed. “You think I’d go down over this? I did what needed to be done. They were all ungrateful. Entitled. They owed me.”
Y/N stepped forward, calm and unflinching.
“Let her go,” she said, slowly approaching.
“Don’t come closer!”
“I understand you,” Y/N said gently. “You felt invisible. Rejected. You needed control. But you never had any. You’re afraid.”
“Shut up!”
Will moved silently to flank him while Y/N continued her psychological takedown.
“Every woman who said no to you proved you weren’t powerful. That’s why you had to kill them. But here? Right now? You have no control. Just desperation.”
The DA hesitated.
Y/N saw her chance. A clean shot.
She took it.
The bullet hit his shoulder, spinning him backward. Ada was released, scrambling into Amanda’s arms. Michael cuffed him as backup poured in.
---
The storm passed. Lockdown lifted. Emergency lights powered off.
Devon was practically bouncing. “That was—insane. I feel like I need a cigarette. And I don’t smoke!”
Faith chuckled. “Welcome to murder investigations.”
Bell blinked, stunned. “I run a hospital. This is not in my job description.”
Amanda deadpanned. “You think this was bad? You should’ve seen ‘92.”
---
That night, Y/N stood under the hot stream of the shower, scrubbing blood and adrenaline from her skin. Steam curled around her as she let the chaos of the day wash away.
When she stepped out, Conrad was already in bed, shirtless, watching her with a look somewhere between admiration and disbelief.
“You are…” he began. “Something else.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I scare you a little?”
“A little.”
She crawled into bed beside him, stretching out. “You’ve seen me in scrubs. Today you saw me in predator mode.”
“I kind of loved it.”
“Yeah?”
He leaned over and kissed her shoulder. “Absolutely. But remind me never to lie to you.”
Y/N laughed, curling into him.
“Too late. I already know when you’re lying,” she teased.
He grinned. “Terrifying.”
“Hot?”
“Definitely.”
They dissolved into laughter and kisses, the storm behind them now just another chapter in their unpredictable lives.
But one thing was certain.
There was no safer place to be than in each other’s arms—even when the world outside raged with chaos.
Will Trent 4x13 "Did I Screw This Up?" Promo - Amanda seeks help from Will and Faith after her gun is used in a self-defense shooting, and suspicion begins to mount around her; at a college job fair, Angie and Ormewood encounter a grad student claiming to have psychic visions.
On September the 10th, 1997, Kylie Minogue* invented the typeface : "German Bold Italic" with the artist Dong-Hwa Jung aka Towa Tei and it would be almost a year later when Bill Gates would release Windows 98 with any kind of comparable typeface available on Microsoft Word. Makes you think 💾🖥️⌨️
* Text from "Thisisdisco" on Twitter (previously) / X (now)
this is for the ghosty bois inc au, made by @zannolin and also @thechannelwithoutaname (but they orphaned it), and this specific one-shot was heavily inspired by something @tea-with-veth also wrote for this au!!
content warnings: major character death, housefires/burning to death
Phil is the only one still downstairs when the clock hits 1:00. He glances up when he hears the hands click into place and sighs, stretching out slightly on the worn sofa. Ah. Probably time for bed, then.
Lazily, languidly, he gets to his feet, leaning over to pick the remote up and switch the tv off, and satisfied, he grabs his mug and begins to head to the kitchen, except—
Now that the background hum of the TV is gone, there should be silence, or at least something as close to silence they can get in their little cabin. And yet…
Phil glances upward. There’s a gentle crackling noise that sounds muffled, almost. It doesn’t sound like it’s coming from Wilbur’s room, not really, but Phil figures he’s probably fooling around in GarageBand again or something. Hopefully, he’ll go to bed soon enough; Phil doesn’t want a repeat of a few months ago when Wil had pulled two all-nighters in a row and been completely awful to Techno the next day.
Definitely Wilbur, he reaffirms as he steps into the kitchen, rough oak floorboards under his feet worn smooth by years of use. It certainly isn’t Techno, who around dinner, had started getting that familiar, foggy-eyed look of exhaustion. Phil smiles a little as he pads across the kitchen to dump the lukewarm coffee into the sink. Out like a light, that one is, and no doubt sleeping like the dead.
Now that he thinks about it, he should probably try and mend their sleep habits. He's one to talk, but he’d prefer that Wilbur at least try to make an effort, and for Techno to get more than ten hours a week on average.
Phil spares a moment to glance at the little digital clock perched on the kitchen counter. It’s ticking as well, faint and slightly out of time with the slow, steady rhythm of the grandfather clock in the living room. There’s a post-it note attached to the side of the clock, so he pulls it off and leans forward, closer to the moonlight streaming in from the window to read it, and wiping sweat off of his forehead as he does. Lord, the summers are getting hot. He really needs to buy a fan.
The paper is a vaguely pinkish color. In Techno’s looped handwriting, it reads tempus edax rerum, and below that, in Wilbur’s far messier scrawl, she moves on pretty bloody (fucking? damn?) quick.
Phil rolls his eyes, but smiles wider in spite of himself. He really needs to talk to Wilbur about writing his lyrics on every available surface, but at least it was actually paper this time.
He comes out of the kitchen, kicks his slippers off by the door and— hold on. He pauses, hand still braced on the wall. Is the sound getting louder?
He turns on his heel, trying to pinpoint the sound, and quickly realizes with mild confusion and a hint of apprehension, that it’s definitely not coming from Wilbur’s room. Downstairs, then.
There’s a little shed adjacent to the kitchen where they keep things like tools and Techno’s fencing equipment (well, what he doesn’t sneak back up to his room, anyway), and the sound, which is growing louder by the minute, seems to be coming from it.
Chest tight with anticipation, he crosses the room to stand in front of the door, laying a hand on the doorknob, and—
“Christ!”
He tears his hand back with a hiss of pain. The metal is blazingly hot, to the point where it’s nearly glowing, and now that he’s closer, he can see the smoke beginning to pour from the crack between the floor and the bottom of the door.
Phil swears again for good measure and backs away, trying to get a handle on the situation. The shed is gone for sure, which means that the kitchen probably is too, right?
He takes a couple steps back to check, and sure enough, the far wall of the kitchen is blazing gently. He retreats to the stairs, trying to get away from the waves of heat beginning to take over the bottom floor. Shit. This is...not ideal.
He turns to glance up towards the second floor and— shit. He needs to get Wilbur and Techno, and then they can get out, run into the woods or something, and then…
Well, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. Right now, the important thing is to grab his sons and get the fuck out.
“Wil!” he calls, quickly heading up the stairs, his footsteps shaking the house. “Wilbur!”
He lets his hands graze the doorknob to test the temperature before he turns it, but now— He curses again and kicks the bottom of the door harshly. Jammed. Of course it is.
“Wilbur!”
This time, there’s the faint clatter of something being put down.
“Yeah? Not right now, I’m editing!” And then, “what the fuck? What’s that smell?”
“Fire!” calls Phil above the sound of the flames, and balks when his voice nearly cracks. “I think your door is stuck! Can you try and open it from in there?!”
A thud. The door rattles on its hinges with Wilbur’s weight, but doesn’t budge.
“It’s stuck,” says Wilbur desperately, trying again, and Phil feels his chest beginning to tighten with something like panic. How far can the fire reach? The living room? The stairs? Here?
“Stand back, Wil,” he says, and as soon as Wilbur complies, he flings his full weight at the door, and thankfully, it groans and gives way.
“Come through the gap,” he orders, casting a glance behind him. Better and better. The fire is almost to the stairs now, licking hungrily at the brittle walls of their little cabin. “Make it quick,” he adds sharply.
Gingerly, Wilbur pushes himself through the gap Phil’s created, wincing every time his curls get caught on the splinters of wood. Impatient, Phil grabs him by the arm and hauls him fully through.
“Sorry,” says Wilbur, breathless and flushed, fanning lightly at his face. “It’s hot out here.”
He’s right. The heat rolling across the house is stifling, and the thick yellow sweater Wilbur’s wearing certainly isn’t helping matters.
“Come on,” Phil says, wiping another bead of sweat away and choking back a cough. “Think Techno’s still asleep?”
Wilbur answers with a grimace. Both of them know how heavy of a sleeper Techno can be, especially if he’d actually remembered to take his meds for once. Great.
“Right,” says Phil, taking Wilbur’s elbow and pulling him back. “Techno’s room. Try not to breathe too hard.” Wilbur answers with a jerky nod, and together, they make their way to the room at the very end of the hall, just past the bathroom.
Wilbur slumps against the wall when they stop outside the door, which is...worrying, but Phil’s chest is beginning to hurt, and he needs to focus.
“Techno!” he calls, jiggling the doorknob carefully. It’s locked, because of course it is. Of course Techno still sleeps with the door locked, despite being told over and over again not to. Phil tries again anyway.
“It’s locked,” says Wilbur unhelpfully, coughing a little. Great. Phil kicks the door as hard as he can, and remembers, sharp panic welling up in his chest, that Techno’s room is directly above the kitchen, which is certainly ablaze by now. Shit. He casts a look back down the hallway. The fire hasn’t reached the top of the stairs yet, which means the hall in between Wilbur and Techno’s rooms should be safe, at least for now.
“Wilbur,” he instructs, trying not to sound too desperate. “Go to the bathroom. See if you can find one of his bobby pins while I try to get him up.”
Wilbur nods jerkily and heads back a couple steps to the bathroom, keeping one hand braced on the wall and the other over the lower half of his face. Phil doesn’t blame him honestly. The smoke is beginning to make him feel a bit lightheaded himself.
As much as he wants to keep his eyes trained on Wilbur, make sure he’s safe, the priority now is getting Techno awake, so he turns back to the locked door.
“Techno!” he yells. Nothing. He tries again, pounding at the door with his fists. Is there movement from inside, or is he imagining things? He can barely hear Wilbur fumbling around in the bathroom over the roar of the flames. It’s just so loud.
“Techno!” This time, it’s all but a scream that immediately turns into a raw cough, but blessedly, Wilbur chooses that moment to re-emerge from the bathroom with a bobby pin pinched between his fingers.
“Found one,” he says hoarsely, all but dropping it into Phil’s palm. Despite the fact that his hands are now extremely sweaty, Phil presses the tip of it into the lock and begins to jiggle it around, although the movement is practically involuntary with how badly his hands are shaking.
Next to him, Wilbur leans his back against the wall and lets himself slide into a sitting position, coughing into the crook of his elbow and looking completely wretched. Phil would tell him to stop, except his chest is burning and his own body is shaking with suppressed coughs. Sweat trickles down his temple. Is the fire in Techno’s room? How the fuck is he still asleep? Phil tries not to even think about what the alternative might be.
And then, barely audible above the flames, a faint—
“What? Why’s it— Dad?”
Phil nearly sobs with relief, except the temperature of the door handle is increasing rapidly, and his vision is getting a little fuzzy at the edges. Huh. He lets go of the knob.
“Tech,” he rasps. “Fire. Can you—?” He coughs weakly. “—Door’s locked.”
There’s the soft noise of the bed creaking, and then the loudest, most violent coughing Phil’s ever heard in his life. It startles him enough that the bobby pin slips through his sweaty fingers and falls gently to the floor. He leans down to pick it up, but the world tips as his fingers brush the dark metal, and he somehow ends up on the floor next to Wilbur. Huh.
“Techno?” he asks again. “Can you…?” he trails off, lifting a hand to rub at his face weakly. It doesn’t do much to get rid of the black spots in his eyes so he frowns a little and lets his arm drop back down. Next to him, Wilbur lets out a pathetic cough and falls silent again. Poor kid must be sweltering in that sweater.
“Dad,” says Techno, voice rasping horribly in his throat just as Phil’s had. He sounds muddled, barely awake enough to form proper sentences. “Dad, what’s— It’s so hot, Jesus.”
He’s silent for a few seconds. Phil thinks he can hear the bed creaking under his weight. What with the amount of blankets he sleeps with, he wouldn’t be surprised if Techno’s overheating as well.
Wilbur’s curled fingers twitch slightly. Phil doesn’t respond. Normally, he’d never ignore his sons like this, but he’s so tired, and it seems like his chest is hurting a little less. It’s taking less effort to breathe now; he’ll answer Techno soon.
(He and Wilbur are too far gone to really register when Techno begins to scream and scream and scream.)
(Miserere nobis.)
(Small mercy)
Downstairs, undeterred by the flames, the grandfather clock ticks on.
