tw: medical emergency, stroke complications, emergency surgery, hospital scenes, cardiac arrest, intense medical procedures
Part one. Part three Part four
The white isn’t empty.
It’s loud.
It hums and whirs and clicks, fluorescent lights glaring down so harshly it feels like they’re drilling straight into your skull. The stretcher rattles beneath you as you’re maneuvered through doors and hallways, voices overlapping in a way that makes it impossible to track who’s speaking to you and who’s speaking about you.
You’re aware of hands on your body. Gentle, but firm. Purposeful.
“Slide her over.”
“On my count.”
The surface beneath you changes—harder, colder—and you flinch as the chill seeps through your clothes. Someone tucks a blanket around your shoulders anyway, like a reflex, like they remember you’re a person and not just a problem to solve.
Michael’s hand is gone.
That realization hits harder than anything else so far.
You turn your head instinctively, panic spiking sharp and sudden in your chest, a broken sound tearing out of your throat when you don’t see him beside you anymore. The noise echoes too loud in the room, wrong and unrecognizable even to you.
“Hey, hey—” a voice says, closer now. A woman’s face comes into view, masked but kind-eyed. “It’s okay. He’s right there.”
You follow her gaze.
Michael stands just beyond the line they won’t let him cross, hands shoved uselessly into his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them if he’s not holding onto you. His face is carefully neutral, the way it gets when he’s working—but his eyes are locked on yours, intense, unblinking.
“I’m here,” he says again, louder now so it carries over the noise. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You try to nod.
You’re not sure it happens.
They slide something beneath your head. A strap goes across your chest—not tight, just enough to keep you still. You hate it anyway. The machine looms above you, massive and impersonal, the circular opening looking more like a mouth than a tunnel.
“CT scan,” someone says, like that explains everything. “Just stay still for me, okay?”
You want to ask how long. You want to ask why you feel like your head is full of cotton and static. You want to ask if this is going to stop.
Your mouth opens.
Nothing useful comes out.
Michael’s jaw tightens when he hears it. He takes a half-step forward before stopping himself, like he’s run into an invisible wall.
“You’re doing great,” he says quickly. “Just lie still. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”
The table starts to move.
You’re swallowed by the machine inch by inch, the white narrowing into a tight circle above you. The noise starts—loud, mechanical, rhythmic. It vibrates through your bones.
Your heart races.
You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on Michael’s voice in your head, replaying it like a mantra. I’m here. I’m right here.
The scan feels like it lasts forever.
When they pull you back out, the world rushes in again all at once. Lights. Faces. Voices.
“Okay, that’s it.”
They unstrap you quickly, efficiently, already moving on to the next step before you can even process that the first one is over.
Michael’s there again almost immediately, hand finding yours like muscle memory, grip firm enough to remind you that you’re real.
“That’s done,” he says softly. “You did good.”
You look at him, searching his face for answers he won’t give you yet.
Dana appears at his shoulder, already reading images on a tablet, her expression focused but tight.
“CTA next,” she says. “We’re still in window.”
Michael nods once. “Okay.”
You’re wheeled again, this time into another room, another table. More instructions. Another IV—this one burning as it goes in, a sharp, uncomfortable heat spreading up your arm that makes you whimper despite yourself.
“I know,” Michael murmurs immediately. “I know.”
They ask you to lift your arms. To push against hands. To smile again.
You try.
Your face doesn’t cooperate.
Dana’s eyes flick to Michael’s for half a second. It’s enough. They both understand.
“She’s aphasic but following commands,” Dana says. “Let’s move.”
Time fractures after that.
You’re vaguely aware of consent forms being placed in front of Michael, of his pen hovering for just a fraction of a second before he signs anyway. You catch snippets of words—ischemic, candidate, risk, bleed—and none of them sound good.
Michael comes back to your side before they take you anywhere else.
“Hey,” he says gently, crouching so he’s eye level with you now. “They’re going to give you some medication to help break up the clot. It might make you feel a little weird. That’s okay.”
You try to say his name.
You know it. You can feel it sitting right there, heavy and solid in your chest.
Your lips part.
Nothing.
Frustration wells up, hot and overwhelming, tears sliding sideways into your hairline as you shake your head helplessly.
Michael reaches up, brushing them away with his thumb.
“Hey,” he says, voice steady even as his eyes shine. “You don’t have to say anything. I know what you’re trying to tell me.”
Do you?
You’re not sure you even know what you’re trying to tell him anymore. That you’re scared. That you don’t want to be alone. That you don’t want this to be the thing that breaks your life in half.
They start the medication.
Your arm aches. Your head throbs. Fatigue crashes over you like a wave, heavy and disorienting. Keeping your eyes open feels like work now. Keeping track of where you are feels impossible.
Michael stays until they tell him he can’t.
“I’ll be right outside,” he promises, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m not leaving.”
You cling to his hand until the last possible second, until a nurse gently pries your fingers loose.
“I’m here,” he repeats, even as they wheel you away. “I’m right here.”
The ICU is quieter.
Not silent—but controlled. Monitors beep softly, ventilators hiss, footsteps move with purpose instead of urgency. The lights are dimmer here, muted, like the world has been turned down a notch.
You drift in and out of sleep.
Sometimes you wake up and Michael is there, sitting in the chair beside your bed, jacket tossed over the arm, eyes fixed on you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away. Sometimes it’s Dana, checking your pupils, your strength, your vitals.
Sometimes it’s no one, just the steady beep of machines and the weight of exhaustion pressing you back into the mattress.
When you wake again, it feels like hours have passed.
Your head hurts. A dull, constant ache that makes you nauseous if you move too much. Your mouth feels dry. Heavy.
Michael notices immediately.
“Hey,” he says softly, leaning forward. “You’re awake.”
You nod.
At least, you think you do.
He smiles a little, relief breaking through the tension in his face. “Good.”
He reaches for your hand again, thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin.
“You’re in the ICU,” he explains gently, like he’s done this before. “They gave you medication to help with the stroke. You did really well.”
You watch his mouth move, understanding every word, every inflection.
You just can’t answer.
You try anyway.
Your lips tremble. Your throat tightens.
A sound comes out—small, broken, nothing like what you meant to say.
Michael’s smile falters for just a second before he schools it again.
“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk right now.”
But you want to.
God, you want to.
You squeeze his hand instead, fingers weak but determined. He notices, eyes widening slightly.
“Hey,” he says, hope creeping into his voice despite himself. “That’s better. That’s good.”
Is it?
You don’t know.
All you know is that the word you want—the one you need—is trapped somewhere inside you, and no matter how hard you push, it won’t come out.
And the fear that settles in your chest this time is quieter, heavier.
Because what if this is it?
What if this is how it stays?
——
Michael stays when the room settles again.
Not in the way people say it—he doesn’t hover, doesn’t pace, doesn’t talk just to fill the quiet. He just stays. In the chair pulled too close to your bed, knees angled toward you like his body knows where it belongs even when the rest of the world doesn’t.
The monitor beside you keeps time. A soft, steady beep. It’s comforting and terrifying all at once.
He notices every small thing.
The way your eyes track him when he moves.
The way your brow tightens when a new sound cuts through the quiet.
The way your fingers twitch when you’re tired but refusing to sleep.
“You’re doing okay,” he says softly, more for himself than for you. “They’re happy with where you’re at right now.”
Right now.
Not better. Not fine. Just… right now.
Dana comes in not long after, moving with that familiar controlled urgency, clipboard tucked against her side. Her gaze flicks from the monitor to your face, then to Michael.
“How’s she been?”
“Awake on and off,” Michael answers immediately. “Following commands. Grip’s a little stronger on the left. Still aphasic.”
Dana nods, stepping closer to you now. “Hey,” she says, voice gentler than you expect. “Can you squeeze my fingers?”
You do. Slowly. Unevenly. But you do it.
“Good,” she says. “Now lift your eyebrows for me.”
You try. One side lags behind the other, but it moves more than it did earlier.
Dana glances at Michael again. This time there’s something like cautious relief in her eyes.
“That’s improvement,” she says. “Small, but real.”
Michael exhales, the sound shaky despite his attempt to keep it controlled.
Dana straightens. “We’ll keep monitoring closely overnight. Risk of swelling is still there, but for now… this is good.”
Good.
The word feels dangerous.
Dana leaves after a few more checks, promising to be nearby. The door clicks shut behind her, and the quiet returns—thicker now, heavier with everything she didn’t say.
Michael leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely together like he’s afraid to grip too hard.
“You hear that?” he asks you gently. “You’re doing better than you were.”
You look at him.
You understand every word.
You just can’t answer.
Your throat tightens anyway, emotion swelling faster than your body can keep up with. Tears blur your vision, sliding down into your hair, soaking into the pillow beneath your head.
Michael’s on his feet instantly.
“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, one hand cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing carefully under your eye. “It’s okay. Cry if you need to. You don’t have to hold it together for me.”
You shake your head weakly, a frustrated sound clawing its way out of your chest. You try to speak—just one word, any word—but it fractures before it ever reaches your mouth.
Michael presses his forehead lightly to yours, grounding, familiar.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know. I promise I’m not going anywhere.”
You cling to that promise like it’s oxygen.
Sleep takes you in uneven pieces after that. You drift in and out, waking to nurses checking vitals, adjusting lines, murmuring reassurances. Each time you surface, Michael is there—sometimes dozing lightly in the chair, sometimes wide awake, watching you like he’s afraid to miss something important.
At some point, the light in the room changes.
Morning, maybe. Or late afternoon. Time doesn’t make sense anymore.
Your head still aches, but it’s quieter now. Duller. Less sharp. You feel… heavier. Like everything takes more effort than it should.
Michael notices you stirring and straightens immediately.
“Hey,” he says softly. “How’re you feeling?”
You consider the question carefully.
Scared.
Tired.
Frustrated.
Still here.
Your mouth opens.
Nothing.
Your jaw tightens, irritation flashing through the fear. You don’t look away this time. You keep your eyes on him, forcing yourself to try again.
A sound escapes—thin, broken, not enough.
Michael’s face doesn’t change. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t finish anything for you.
“That’s okay,” he says. “Take your time.”
You close your eyes, breathing through it, concentrating on the shape of the word you want. You know it. You’ve said it a thousand times. It lives in your chest. In your bones.
You open your eyes again.
Your lips tremble.
“M—”
The sound is rough, dragged out, barely recognizable.
Michael stills completely.
You swallow, throat burning.
“My—”
The syllable collapses in on itself. You shake your head, tears spilling again as frustration claws its way up your spine.
Michael’s hand tightens around yours—not stopping you, just anchoring you.
“I’m right here,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to do this if it hurts.”
But you need to.
You draw in a breath, deeper this time, forcing air through lungs that feel too small.
“Mi…ch—”
Your voice cracks. Breaks.
You pause. Try again, slower. More deliberate. Like you’re pushing the word through molasses.
“M…Michael.”
It comes out fractured. Uneven. Wrong.
But it’s his name.
For a second, he doesn’t react at all.
Then his face crumples.
A sharp, broken sound leaves his chest as he presses his forehead against your hand, shoulders shaking as he lets himself cry—really cry—for the first time since this started.
“Oh my god,” he breathes. “You did that. You—you did that.”
He lifts his head, eyes red, smile trembling and impossibly wide all at once.
“You hear me?” he says softly, like he’s afraid the moment might disappear if he speaks too loudly. “You said my name.”
You don’t know how to answer him. The effort it took to push the word out has left you hollowed, exhausted down to your bones. Your jaw aches. Your throat burns. But the look on his face — the mix of awe and relief and disbelief — tells you everything you need to know.
Your fingers curl weakly around his.
He notices immediately.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding to himself like he’s cataloguing it. “Okay. That’s good. That’s really good.”
The nurse comes in not long after — drawn by the slight spike in your heart rate, by the subtle shift in the room that always seems to happen when something changes. She smiles when Michael explains what happened, careful not to overreact but clearly pleased.
“That’s a great sign,” she says, making a note. “Single-word output, intentional. That’s progress.”
Progress.
The word settles into the room like something fragile.
She runs through her checks again — pupils, grip, facial movement. Everything is measured, calm, methodical. There’s no rush now. No shouting. No alarms.
Michael answers questions automatically, slipping back into that familiar cadence without thinking, but his hand never leaves yours. Not once.
When the nurse leaves, the room feels different.
Not safe. Not fixed.
But… steadier.
Michael sits back down, still close, still angled toward you. He doesn’t ask you to repeat it. Doesn’t ask you to try another word. He just watches you breathe, watches the rise and fall of your chest like it’s something he needs to memorize.
“You don’t have to do anything else today,” he says softly. “That was more than enough.”
You believe him.
Sleep takes you in pieces after that — shallow at first, then deeper, heavier. You surface to the quiet hum of the ICU, to the gentle touch of hands checking vitals, adjusting lines, murmuring reassurances meant for people who might not understand them.
Each time you wake, Michael is there.
Sometimes sitting upright, alert despite the exhaustion carved into his face. Sometimes slouched slightly, eyes closed but never fully asleep, like he’s trained himself to wake at the smallest change in the room.
At some point, the light through the narrow window shifts.
The harsh white gives way to something softer. Pale gold. Late afternoon, maybe. Or early evening. Time has blurred into something abstract, measured only by vitals and footsteps and the steady beep beside your bed.
Michael notices you stirring before you even open your eyes.
“Hey,” he says immediately, leaning forward. “You with me?”
You nod.
He smiles — small, careful, like he doesn’t want to scare the moment away.
“Speech therapy came by while you were out,” he tells you. “They’re gonna come back tomorrow. They think… they think you’ve got a really good chance.”
He says it like he’s afraid of the words.
“Especially after earlier.”
Earlier.
Your name for him. His name for you.
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask you to try again. He just talks — low, steady, grounding — about things that don’t matter but somehow do. The weather outside. The awful coffee down the hall. The fact that Dana threatened to steal his chair if he didn’t go stretch his legs.
You listen. You rest.
Hours pass like that. The room remains calm. Your head still aches, but it’s dull now, manageable. Your body feels heavy, like gravity has increased just slightly and you’re learning how to exist under it.
Michael allows himself to breathe.
Not deeply. Not fully.
But enough.
At some point — you don’t know when — he squeezes your hand gently and says, “You did that, you know.”
You look at him.
“That word,” he continues quietly. “That was you. That was all you.”
There’s something close to pride in his voice. Something reverent.
And for the first time since the restaurant, since Hawaii and October and unfinished sentences, the future doesn’t feel completely unreachable.
Just… far away.
And fragile.
But there.
——
Michael’s phone buzzes once in his pocket.
He doesn’t reach for it right away. He glances at you first, like he’s checking whether the sound startled you, whether it pulled you too sharply out of whatever thin, careful calm you’ve settled into.
When you don’t react, he finally looks down. A message from Dana. Short.
I’m around. Call if anything changes.
He exhales slowly and tucks the phone away again.
“Everyone’s hovering,” he murmurs, half to himself. “You’ve got a whole team invested in you now.”
You watch his mouth move. You understand every word. You even feel a flicker of something like humor at the corners of your chest — the idea of being invested in, of being something people are watching instead of something that’s happening to you.
You try to smile.
It’s better than before. Not perfect. But better.
Michael notices immediately.
“There,” he says softly, like he’s afraid of jinxing it. “That’s better.”
He doesn’t clap. Doesn’t celebrate. Just files it away carefully, like he’s building a case for hope one tiny detail at a time.
The nurse comes back in for evening checks. Vitals first. Blood pressure cuff tightening around your arm, pulse oximeter clipped back onto your finger. She asks you to squeeze her hands again, to lift your eyebrows, to stick your tongue out.
You comply. Slowly. Unevenly. But you do it.
“Nice,” she says, genuinely pleased. “That’s holding.”
Holding.
Michael nods, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.
“She’s been stable,” he says. “No new deficits.”
“Good,” the nurse replies. “That’s what we want to see tonight.”
Tonight. There’s something grounding about that word. It implies tomorrow. It implies continuity.
After she leaves, Michael shifts in his chair, rolling his shoulders like he’s finally feeling how stiff they are. He doesn’t let go of your hand, though — just adjusts so he can keep holding it without leaning awkwardly over the bed.
“You hungry?” he asks softly. “They’ll probably clear you for something light soon.”
You consider the question seriously.
Your stomach feels… strange. Not exactly nauseous anymore. Just off. Heavy.
You shake your head.
“Okay,” he says easily. “That’s fine.”
He doesn’t push. He hasn’t pushed all day.
Time stretches again. The light outside fades further, the gold thinning into gray, then into something darker. The ICU doesn’t change much with nightfall — it’s always lit, always awake — but the sounds soften. Footsteps slow. Voices lower.
Michael talks less now. He seems content to sit in the quiet with you, thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your knuckles.
You watch him instead.
The way his brow furrows when a monitor beeps differently than before.
The way his gaze snaps to your face every time you shift.
The way he hasn’t once looked truly relaxed — just less afraid.
At some point, your head starts to ache again.
Not sharply. Not like before.
Just… pressure.
It builds gradually, like someone’s tightening something from the inside. You frown, shifting against the pillow, trying to find a position that eases it.
Michael notices instantly.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes.
You try again, a little harder.
Still nothing.
Your brow furrows deeper, frustration bubbling up alongside the pressure in your head. You lift your free hand, gesture vaguely toward your temples, hoping he’ll understand.
He does.
“Headache?” he asks.
You nod.
His expression tightens — not alarmed, not yet — but alert.
“Okay,” he says calmly. “Okay. That can happen. You want me to grab the nurse?”
You hesitate. The ache pulses once, stronger.
You nod again.
Michael’s already reaching for the call button.
The nurse comes back quickly, asking questions in that steady, practiced tone. When did it start? Is it worse than before? Any nausea? Sensitivity to light?
Michael answers where you can’t, his voice precise, controlled.
“It’s new,” he says. “Pressure-like. She was comfortable earlier.”
The nurse nods, concern flickering across her face before she smooths it away. She checks your pupils again. Your grip. Your facial movement.
You can feel it now — the way something doesn’t quite line up the way it did an hour ago.
Michael feels it too.
The nurse straightens. “I’m going to get Dana.”
Michael’s jaw tightens.
Dana arrives fast. Too fast for this to be nothing.
She repeats the exam, her movements brisk but careful. You follow her finger with your eyes, squeeze her hands, try to smile again.
It’s slower this time.
Uneven.
Dana doesn’t comment. She doesn’t need to.
She looks at Michael.
“Let’s get another CT,” she says. “Now.”
The word now snaps the fragile calm in half.
Your heart rate spikes. The monitor betrays you with its sudden urgency.
You look at Michael, panic rising sharp and fast as the pressure in your head blooms into something heavier.
You try to say his name.
Your mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Michael leans in close, forehead pressing briefly to yours, his voice steady despite the fear flaring behind his eyes.
“I’m here,” he says firmly. “I’ve got you. We’re going to figure this out.”
The bed starts moving again.
The doors swing open.
And the quiet you’d finally started to trust disappears as you’re rushed back toward the light—
hope still there, somewhere—
but suddenly fragile enough to shatter.
——
The second CT is quieter than the first.
Not because the room is calm — but because everyone already knows what they’re looking for.
You’re slid onto the table without ceremony, straps secured, head positioned with careful precision. The techs don’t chatter this time. No gentle explanations, no reassurances meant to soothe nerves. Just efficient movement and low, clipped communication that barely registers over the hum of the machine.
The pressure in your head is worse now.
Not sharp — not yet — but heavy. Like something is pressing outward from the inside, insistent, unrelenting. Your heart races in response, a frantic rhythm you can feel in your throat, in your ears.
“Stay still,” someone says softly.
You do. You don’t have the energy to fight anything anymore.
The scan runs.
Seconds stretch. The machine hums. The ceiling blurs.
When it stops, you’re pulled back out into the light — and for a brief moment, nothing happens. No one speaks. The tech’s eyes flick between the screen and your face, then back again.
His jaw tightens.
He zooms in.
Adjusts contrast.
Scrolls.
“That wasn’t visible before,” he says quietly.
Another tech steps closer. “It was masked.”
Masked.
The word lands somewhere deep in your chest, even though you don’t fully understand it.
Dana is there moments later, already pulling the images up on her tablet. She doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. She doesn’t need to.
Her eyes track across the screen once.
Then again, slower.
“There,” she says, tapping the display. “Secondary bleed.”
“How big?” someone asks.
“Small,” Dana replies. “But active. It was obscured by the initial hemorrhage — it took over the line of sight.”
Your stomach drops.
Active.
Dana straightens. “We need to take her to surgery. Now. Neurosurgery.”
There’s no panic in her voice — just urgency sharpened to a blade.
The room springs into motion.
You’re transferred back onto the bed, lines disconnected and reconnected with practiced efficiency. Someone presses medication into your IV; someone else adjusts the monitor leads. The ache in your head pulses harder now, nausea curling low in your gut.
You try to speak.
Nothing comes.
“OR’s being prepped,” a voice says.
“Get consent.”
That last order breaks off, carried away by footsteps already moving fast down the hall.
Michael has been standing exactly where they left him, arms folded tight across his chest, gaze fixed on the CT doors like he can see through them if he tries hard enough. When he sees the doctor coming, something in his posture shifts immediately.
He knows.
“There’s an additional intracranial bleed,” the doctor says, not wasting time. “It was obscured on the initial imaging. She needs emergency surgery.”
Michael doesn’t hesitate.
“Do it,” he says.
“We need your consent.”
The clipboard is shoved into his hands. He barely glances at the paper — just flips to the line that matters and signs. His name is steady. Clear. Final.
“Please,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it together. “Please save her.”
Michael is not brought to the OR.
He’s guided instead into a small consultation room just down the corridor — windowless, sterile, furnished with a table and a few stiff chairs. The door closes behind him with a soft click that feels louder than it should.
“She’s going into surgery,” the nurse tells him gently. “Someone will update you as soon as they can.”
Michael nods, too stiff. “Okay.”
He sits. Stands. Paces. Sits again.
Minutes pass — or maybe seconds. Time doesn’t make sense anymore.
The door opens again.
They come in one by one.
Langdon first, expression unreadable.
McKay close behind him, jaw tight.
Javadi, her hand already reaching out before she seems to realize she’s doing it.
Whitaker, silent, steady.
King, pale but composed.
Abbott, leaning against the wall, arms folded.
No one looks panicked.
No one looks relieved.
“They found another bleed,” Langdon says carefully. “It was obscured on the initial scan.”
Michael swallows. “Is she—”
“She was stable when they took her back,” McKay says. “Vitals were holding.”
Stable.
Michael exhales, shaky but controlled. “Okay.”
Javadi speaks next, voice gentle. “They caught it. That matters.”
“She’s young,” King adds quietly. “She got here fast.”
Whitaker nods once. “She’s where she needs to be.”
They stay with him — not crowding, not hovering — just occupying the room so he doesn’t have to be alone with his thoughts. Someone hands him water. He doesn’t remember drinking it.
His hands are shaking now. He doesn’t try to hide it.
⸻
Inside the OR, everything is methodical.
Controlled.
You’re wheeled in beneath lights so bright they blur your vision, transferred carefully onto the operating table. The room is already alive — instruments laid out, monitors humming, staff moving with practiced coordination.
Your heart rate is fast but steady.
Blood pressure elevated — but responsive.
“Okay,” someone says calmly. “We’re starting.”
Your head is positioned again, padded, secured. A drape is placed. Hands move at your scalp, precise, deliberate.
The pressure in your head remains — but it’s tolerable. Uncomfortable, not unbearable.
“This is going well,” a voice murmurs.
And it is.
For a while.
Your vitals hold. Medications are adjusted smoothly. The bleed is located. Addressed. There’s no shouting, no alarms — just focused work and quiet communication.
The world narrows to sensation: the hum of machines, the distant murmur of voices, the strange, floating awareness that you are here but not fully present.
—
Back in the consultation room, Michael sits rigidly in his chair, eyes fixed on the door like it might open if he stares hard enough.
“They’d tell us if something went wrong,” he says, more statement than question.
Langdon nods. “They would.”
McKay shifts. “This part always feels longer than it is.”
Michael lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “She said my name.”
The room stills.
“Earlier,” he adds quietly. “She said my name.”
Javadi smiles softly. “That’s a good sign.”
Michael nods, clinging to that single fact like a lifeline.
In the OR, something changes.
Not abruptly. Not dramatically.
Just… subtly.
“BP’s creeping up,” someone notes.
“Okay,” another voice replies. “Adjusting.”
Your chest feels tight again. Breathing takes more effort than it did minutes ago. The pressure in your head sharpens, a spike of pain cutting through the fog.
“Heart rate’s increasing.”
“Watch it.”
Hands move faster now. Voices sharpen.
“BP’s not responding the way it was.”
The monitor chirps — not an alarm yet, but a warning.
Your vision dims at the edges.
“Hang on,” someone says. “Stay with us.”
The numbers drop.
Suddenly. Steeply.
“BP’s crashing.”
“Wait—”
The alarm screams.
The line stutters.
Then flattens.
“—she’s coding.”
The room explodes into motion.
“Start compressions.”
“Time?”
Hands slam against your chest. Voices overlap, orders shouted, the calm shattered completely.
this is the print i did today!! its going to be part of a series including the original frank linocut i did!!! you guys really liked the last one thats so cool :3
