Maladaptive Author @themaladaptiveauthor - Tumblr Blog

When Hell Breaks Loose - Rabbot

A normal school morning fractures into chaos when a shooting sends two sisters into survival and their family into a race against fear, memory, and time. As sirens fade, what remains is not resolution, but the fragile, hard won reality of having made it out together. 8.0k

This piece was requested by @cherieann-2001, I hope you love it honey!!!! I did change it around abit in terms of the ages because in my head I couldn't change it around for others in the hospital to know about the girls in their early stages of life. The kids were like Jack and Michael's secret.

As always please go into this knowing that these stories are mostly built from my maladaptive daydreams, knowing that most points that aren't described in detail are indications I didn’t fascinate on it enough and others over explained because I hyper fixated on that certain point, but most importantly please know I do use AI as my unpaid employee to fix things and act as my co reader. Enjoy!

The morning didn’t feel like it was going to break anything.

It felt harmless.

Routine.

The kind of morning that passed half asleep and half rushed, carried by muscle memory and the soft irritations of the first school day after break.

Outside, the light was still thin but the sun was shining, not quite settled into a real morning yet. The windows over the sink were fogged faintly at the corners from the difference in temperature, and the kitchen smelled like butter hitting a hot pan, dark coffee, toasted bread, and the faint sweetness of whatever shampoo Rue had used the night before lingering when she passed through rooms. The house was full of little waking up noises, pipes ticking in the walls, the low hum of the refrigerator, cabinet doors opening and shutting, someone upstairs dragging their feet across the hallway floor.

You were already in the kitchen, moving on instinct more than thought.

Coffee poured. Toast flipped. Lunches checked. Bottles filled.

The counter was cool under your fingertips when you leaned down to grab Stevie’s travel mug. The air still carried that sleepy morning chill that lived in houses before too many people started moving around in them. Your own coffee had gone half forgotten beside the stove, not hot enough anymore, but you drank it anyway between motions.

Stevie came down first.

Of course she did.

Not because she was the most awake, but because she made the most noise about not being awake.

Her bag dragged behind her with a heavy scrape scrape against the wood floor, one strap twisted, zipper half open, as if she’d packed it in a hurry or maybe just thrown things at it until everything fit. Her hair was still a little messy at the ends, and there were faint pillow creases on one side of her cheek.

She dropped into a chair dramatically, blinking at the light over the stove like it had personally offended her.

“Why does school start this early?” she muttered, voice rough with sleep, reaching automatically for the coffee you had already made her.

You didn’t even turn around.

“Because you refuse to go to bed before midnight.”

“False,” she said immediately, wrapping both hands around the mug and leaning over it for warmth. “I go to bed at eleven.”

“You sit on your phone until midnight.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is exactly the same thing.”

“It is feels different, cause I’m laying down.”

That pulled a quiet laugh out of you before you could help it.

You slid a plate in front of her, toast still warm enough to steam faintly, butter melting into the surface and catching the light. Stevie looked at it, then at you, and gave a tired little nod that was close enough to gratitude to count.

Upstairs, you heard slower footsteps.

Not dragging like Stevie.

Measured.

Careful.

Rue.

Rue always entered mornings like she was testing them first. She never came crashing into a day. She arrived in it gently, piece by piece, as if she needed a little more time than everyone else to put herself together before the world got too loud.

When she appeared in the doorway, she was already dressed.

Uniform neat.

Shoes on.

Bag over one shoulder.

Her hair was pulled back with more care than usual, every strand smoothed into place in that quiet, precise way she had when she was trying to make herself feel steady. She stood there for half a second before stepping fully into the kitchen, and even from across the room you could see the tension in her body, the way her shoulders held too high, the way her fingers were curled around her bag strap hard enough to whiten at the knuckles.

Freshman.

Your baby.

The thought moved through you warm and painful all at once.

Stevie looked up first and grinned instantly, because of course she did.

“You look terrified.”

Rue frowned.

“I’m not.”

Stevie took a sip of coffee, narrowed her eyes dramatically, and pointed with the mug. “You’re gripping your bag like it’s about to run away from us.”

Rue looked down at her hand like she hadn’t realised she was doing it. Her grip loosened, then tightened again anyway.

“I just don’t want to be late.”

There was something small in the way she said it. Too quick. Too careful.

Stevie heard it too.

The teasing in her face softened almost immediately. She leaned back in her chair and tipped her head toward the empty seat beside her.

“You won’t be,” she said. “I’ll walk you in.”

Rue’s expression shifted.

Not quite relief.

Not quite embarrassment.

Something between them.

“I don’t need you to walk me in.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” Stevie cut in, but gentler now, the edge gone from her voice. “First day. I’m allowed.”

Rue hesitated.

You could see all of it happen across her face, that little internal fight between wanting independence and wanting comfort, wanting to seem older and still needing someone familiar close by.

Then, quietly, “Okay.”

And just like that, it was settled.

That was them.

No fight ever lasted long when it actually mattered.

Stevie reached over and tugged Rue’s sleeve once, casual and quick, like she didn’t want to make a big thing out of it. Rue rolled her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders eased just a little.

You watched them while pretending not to.

The kitchen felt warmer then. The early light had shifted more gold than blue. The coffee smell had deepened. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed, and the distant sound of a dog barking carried through the neighbourhood.

All of it so normal it hurt to remember.

By the time they were ready to leave, the house had fully woken up. Backpacks slung on. Travel mugs snapped shut, one with hot chocolate the other with a refill of coffee. Shoes squeaking faintly at the tile by the door. There was the rustle of jackets, the click of someone checking a phone, the usual last minute scramble that always happened no matter how prepared everyone had been ten minutes earlier.

You stood by the door and watched them the way you always did.

Because no matter how old they got, some part of you still counted heads, shoes, jackets, socks before the door opened.

“Text me when you get there,” you called after them.

“We will,” Stevie said, already halfway out, voice easy, automatic.

Rue nodded.

Then she paused.

Actually paused.

Turned back.

For half a second she just looked at you, and something in her face shifted, something young, something uncertain, something that had nothing to do with being late or school schedules or first day nerves.

Then she crossed the distance between you in two quick steps and hugged you.

Fast.

Tight.

Sudden enough to catch you off guard.

She held on with more force than she usually would, and you could feel the cool morning air clinging to her uniform, the slight tremble she was trying to hide, the softness of her hair against your chin. Your body froze for the briefest beat, surprised by it.

Then you melted.

Your hand came up to cradle the back of her head, and you pressed a kiss into her hairline.

“Go,” you murmured, softer than before.

She nodded against you and stepped back.

Stevie had seen the whole thing.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t joke. Didn’t make it weird.

She only watched with that quiet, softened expression she got sometimes when she let herself feel more than she said.

Then she slung her bag higher on her shoulder and nudged Rue toward the door with her elbow.

“Come on, freshman.”

Rue rolled her eyes, but she stayed close to her.

The front door opened.

A gust of cool air slipped in, carrying the smell of damp pavement and morning grass.

Then they were gone.

You stood there a second longer than necessary, listening to their footsteps fade down the path, then the car door, then nothing.

The house felt strangely still after that.

A mug left on the table.

Crumbs on the plate.

The low hum of the refrigerator.

Your own breathing.

They didn’t know it would be the last normal moment of the day.

And neither did you.

☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆

Robby was four hours into his shift when the first patient came in.

By then, the ER had already settled into its usual rhythm, the kind of chaos that became its own form of order if you lived inside it long enough. The fluorescent lights cast everything in that flat, unforgiving brightness that made exhaustion look worse and blood look darker. The air smelled like antiseptic, gloves, stale coffee, printer toner, and that underlying hospital smell that never really went away no matter how much anything got cleaned.

Monitors chirped.

Phones rang.

Shoes squeaked over polished floors.

Voices overlapped from hallways and bays and nurses’ stations.

A woman in triage was crying. Somewhere nearby a kid was coughing hard enough to gag. A trauma cart rattled past with metal instruments softly clinking against one another.

Routine, in the way only an ER could call this routine.

Robby moved through it like he always did fast, precise, efficient, his brain splitting itself into a dozen tracks at once without seeming to strain. He had a chart in one hand, a pen tucked behind one ear, and the remains of terrible coffee cooling on a counter he’d forgotten he’d poured.

Then the doors burst open.

“Male, fifteen, GSW—”

That caught his attention, but not yet his fear.

Gunshot wound.

Young.

Bad, yes.

Urgent, absolutely.

But the ER had taught him not to freeze at categories. Not yet. Not until he had details. Not until a body was in front of him and his hands knew what they were dealing with.

He was moving before the gurney had fully locked into place.

“Let’s go, let’s go—”

The boy was pale beneath the harsh lights, skin sweaty and ashen, lips tinged wrong. Blood had soaked through makeshift bandaging at the shoulder and spread dark and sticky across the sheet beneath him. The smell hit quickly, fresh blood, copper thick and unmistakable, cutting through the antiseptic hospital air.

Robby stepped in.

Focused.

Clinical.

He could feel the warmth of the blood through layers of gauze and gloves as he pressed down. Could hear the wet, uneven catch in the boy’s breathing. Could see the panic in his eyes, that frantic animal awareness that lived right at the edge of shock.

“Pressure there—no, higher—keep him awake—what’s his name?”

“Stephen,” someone answered.

Robby leaned into the boy’s line of sight.

“Stephen, stay with me. Look at me. You hear me? Stay with me.”

The kid’s eyes flickered toward him, glassy with pain, breath coming too fast. His fingers twitched weakly against the rail of the gurney. Somewhere to Robby’s left a monitor started sounding a faster alert, sharp and insistent.

“BP’s dropping.”

“I see it. Another line. Now.”

The room narrowed the way it always did in moments like that. Noise became function. Motion became sequence. His hands moved automatically, memory and training overriding anything softer or more human.

Then another gurney burst through the doors.

“Second incoming—multiple casualties—”

Robby didn’t look up immediately.

His attention stayed on the wound, on the pressure, on the slipping vitals.

“From where?”

“Shooting, Morton King Private High School.”

The words did not register all at once.

They entered him in pieces.

High school.

Shooter.

Multiple casualties.

For one second the room around him seemed to tilt, not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice, just enough that his own balance went strange inside his skin.

Still he kept working.

“What school?” he asked.

Too fast.

Too sharp.

Santos turned at once, hearing something in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

“Which one?”

The paramedic answered.

And the answer hit like a gunshot of its own.

The girls’ school.

Robby’s hand stopped.

Just for half a second.

Half a second with blood warm beneath his glove and the monitor still sounding and someone speaking right beside him.

Then he forced himself to move again.

No hesitation.

No visible collapse.

Because he couldn’t.

Because there was a child bleeding under his hands.

Because the only thing more dangerous than panic in an ER was a doctor who let it show.

But inside him, everything changed.

Stevie.

Rue.

The names rose in his mind so hard they almost drowned out everything else.

Stevie, who would be rolling her eyes at the first day assembly by now. Rue, who had to have been trying so hard not to look scared this morning. Freshman. Junior.

There.

They were there.

His daughters were there.

“Pressure’s dropping—”

“I see it,” he snapped, though his voice no longer sounded like his own. It was too controlled now. Too clipped. So deliberate it became unnatural.

He didn’t feel fully inside his body anymore. His hands still worked, still adjusted, still guided the team through the procedure, but some other part of him had gone running, down school hallways, through stairwells, through classrooms, searching for girls in uniforms, for familiar faces, for signs of life.

More sirens sounded outside.

Then more.

Their wail rose and fell through the ambulance bay doors, stacking over each other until the entire department seemed to pulse with it. The ER began to shift in tone around him. People moved faster. Stretchers were repositioned. Staff called for supplies before they were needed. Hall beds were cleared. The whole place tightened into the posture of disaster response.

Mass casualty.

Across the room, Dana looked up and saw Robby’s face.

Saw enough to understand immediately.

“Robby—”

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

Too quick.

Too sharp.

A lie so obvious it almost didn’t deserve the name.

Dana didn’t argue, but her expression changed.

Everyone’s did, little by little.

Because word spread quickly in a hospital.

Because everyone in that ER knew which school it was.

Because everyone knew who Robby and Abbot’s daughters were.

Another patient came in.

Then another.

More blood.

More crying.

More shoes squeaking fast over the floor.

More voices, paramedics talking over one another, nurses calling vitals, someone asking for O-neg, someone else asking where the hell transport was.

The smell of blood got thicker.

Not enough to overpower the bleach and antiseptic, but enough to thread through it until the whole room tasted metallic. Robby swallowed and could feel that copper tang settle on the back of his tongue, partly real, partly panic.

He kept moving.

Too efficiently now.

That was the frightening part.

Not faltering.

Not shaking.

Not losing control.

He became sharper.

Colder.

His orders came cleaner, harder, stripped of anything unnecessary.

“Move.”

“Not that tray, the other one.”

“Call it now.”

“No, faster than that.”

No wasted motion.

No wasted words.

Just fear compressed so tightly it became force.

“Dr. Robinavitch—”

“What?”

The nurse startled slightly. “They’re asking for you in—”

“I’m busy,” he cut in.

The words landed harder than he meant them to. The nurse’s mouth closed. She nodded once and stepped back.

Jesse moved closer.

“Robby.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

That made him look up.

Finally.

And what Jesse saw in his eyes made him stop.

Because this wasn’t ordinary fear.

Wasn’t workplace stress.

Wasn’t even the usual horror of treating hurt children.

This was personal in the most devastating way possible.

The room around Robby seemed both too loud and strangely far away. Monitors beeped in high, repetitive notes. A trauma shears clattered to the floor somewhere behind him. Someone was crying in one of the curtained bays. He could feel sweat cooling at the base of his neck beneath his scrubs, though the ER itself was cold enough to raise goosebumps on exposed skin. His stomach had gone tight and hollow, a sick fist of dread that wouldn’t release.

“They’re bringing more in,” Jesse said carefully. “You need to—”

“I am doing my job,” Robby snapped.

Silence flickered between them for a second.

Not true silence.

Hospital silence.

Meaning the noise continued, but the people closest to them stopped speaking and pretended not to listen.

Then the ambulance doors opened again.

Another stretcher.

Another teenager.

Another set of bloodstained hands trying to keep pressure on a wound during transport.

And all Robby could think was:

Not them. Not them. Not them.

He never said it aloud.

But the prayer beat through him in time with his pulse.

Every new arrival became a fresh moment of terror before recognition or relief. A sleeve that was the wrong colour. Hair too dark. Shoes too big. A face he didn’t know.

Thank God.

God, thank God.

Then the guilt for that thought hit immediately after, ugly and hot.

Because someone else’s child was still someone’s child.

Because he was saving children while begging, in the most selfish part of himself, that none of them be his.

And that knowledge made him harsher with himself, more relentless, as if competence could earn him mercy.

Hours seemed to compress and stretch at once.

The wall clock barely moved.

His pulse never slowed.

Every time the doors opened, his breath caught.

The first normal morning of the school year was gone.

In its place there was only fluorescent light, blood on gloves, sirens outside, and the unbearable not knowing.

☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆

Jack barely remembered the drive, just fragments, sirens splitting the air open, the steering wheel slick under his palms, his fingers tightening and readjusting like he couldn’t get a grip on anything solid.

By the time he stepped out onto the asphalt, the world hit him all at once, heat rising off the pavement, the sharp stink of exhaust, the distant metallic tang of something burned into the air.

Voices overlapped in urgent bursts, radios crackling, students crying somewhere beyond the barricade. His vest felt heavier than it ever had, pressing into his chest like it was trying to hold his lungs still.

“Stack up,”Benjin said beside him, and he moved automatically, falling into position with his team, weapon raised, breath controlled but his hands were damp, clammy against the grip, betraying the calm his training demanded.

Inside, the school felt wrong in a way he couldn’t name at first, too quiet in stretches, then suddenly loud with echoes, a locker door swaying on its hinge, a phone vibrating against tile, the distant, muffled sob of someone hiding. His boots moved fast but careful, each step placed with intention as they cleared corners, checked rooms, called out.

But his mind kept overlaying something else on top of what he was seeing now, the memory of walking these same halls days earlier, slower, softer, Rue at his side clutching that same bear, Stevie half a step ahead pretending she wasn’t paying attention. Left here, he thought, eyes flicking to a hallway lined with science posters. Rue’s homeroom was down there.

Then another turn, stairs to the right, Stevie said her English class was second floor. The map replayed in his head in pieces, fractured but urgent, each remembered detail becoming a direction, a possibility. Every door they passed felt like it could be the one. Every shadow made his pulse spike.

“Clear,”

One of his teammates called from behind him, but Jack was already moving forward, jaw tight, breath thin, chasing the memory of where his daughters were supposed to be and praying, harder than he ever had, that this time, memory would lead him to something alive.

Jack didn’t waste time.

By the time he got Rue into his arms, his body was already running on something harsher than adrenaline, something metallic and sick that coated the back of his tongue and made every breath feel too thin. Rue’s legs locked around his waist so tightly he could feel the trembling in her muscles through his uniform, her fingers twisted in the fabric at his shoulders hard enough to pinch.

Her face was buried in his neck.

Her breath came in hot, ragged bursts against his skin.

Not steady crying.

Not even words at first.

Just those broken, animal little sounds that came from someplace deeper than language.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, one hand spread over the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair to keep her anchored against him. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

His voice sounded calm.

He had years of training making sure of that.

But the rest of him was betraying him.

His palms were clammy inside his gloves. Sweat cooled under the collar of his vest and along his spine, leaving his shirt damp and chilled against his skin. His heartbeat was pounding so hard it made his jaw feel tight. Every nerve in his body was firing at once, making the fluorescent lit hallway around him feel too bright, too sharp, too unreal.

Rue didn’t answer.

She only clung harder.

Her body shook against him in violent little pulses, every shiver knocking into his ribs. He could smell dust in her hair, old insulation, the stale dryness of the crawlspace she’d hidden in, underneath it the salt of tears and the faint, familiar scent of her shampoo that hit him so hard it nearly split him open.

“Dad,” she whispered again, the word breaking against his throat. “Stevie—”

His stomach dropped so hard it felt like missing a step in the dark.

“I know,” he said.

The lie came easy.

“We’re gonna find her.”

He didn’t know that.

He didn’t know anything except that one daughter was in his arms and the other was still somewhere in this building or already outside or bleeding or hiding or,

He cut the thought off so hard it hurt.

No.

Not now.

He adjusted his hold on Rue and stepped back into the hallway.

And the school no longer looked like a school.

It smelled wrong first.

That was what he would remember later.

Not the noise. Not the lights.

The smell.

Burnt gunpowder hanging faint and bitter in the air. Dust shaken loose from old vents and ceiling tiles. The sour tang of fear, sweat, tears, the sharp smell of someone having been sick nearby. Industrial floor cleaner underneath it all, lemony and artificial, clinging stubbornly to the tile as if the building itself was trying and failing to remain ordinary.

His boots hit the floor with dull, controlled impacts as he moved, but every sound seemed too loud in the hush that had followed the screaming. Somewhere farther down the hall, a radio crackled. Someone shouted for a medic. A door banged open, then shut. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with that cheap electric hum schools always had, and the noise got under his skin so badly he wanted to tear the fixtures down.

Backpacks lay abandoned in the corridor.

One open, papers spilled out in a fan of bright colour's and half finished homework.

A sneaker on its side near the lockers.

A phone vibrating against the floor with a trapped, insect like rattle.

Each thing was so normal it became monstrous.

Jack’s eyes moved over everything, searching, cataloging, missing nothing and understanding none of it fast enough. His training kept him steady, kept his breathing measured, kept his shoulders squared and his weapon low and controlled.

But inside,

Inside he was splintering.

Because every classroom door he passed held the possibility.

Because every patch of red on the floor caught his eye before his mind could tell him if it was blood or a dropped sports drink or paint from some student project.

Because he had spent years running toward danger and none of that training had prepared him for what it felt like when the children inside the perimeter were his.

His.

Not theoretical children. Not victims in a report. Not names waiting to be matched with guardians.

Rue.

Stevie.

His girls.

He could taste copper in his mouth from how hard he was biting the inside of his cheek.

“Police!” he called, voice carrying down the hallway, steady enough to trust. “If you can hear me, stay where you are! You’re safe now!”

The word safe felt obscene in his mouth.

Rue flinched at the volume, and he lowered his tone immediately, pressing his cheek briefly to the top of her head.

“It’s okay,” he whispered for her alone.

Her fingers twitched against his neck. He could feel how cold they were.

Cold enough to scare him.

Shock.

He knew the signs.

He hated knowing the signs.

He turned a corner and saw more evidence of panic, desks shoved against a classroom door, a chair snapped at one leg, glitter from some dropped art project sparkling absurdly under the sterile lights. There was a smear of something on the cinderblock wall, and his body reacted before his thoughts did, a sick jolt of dread punching through his ribs.

He didn’t let himself look too long.

He couldn’t.

“Jack—status?” crackled through his radio.

He lifted it with a hand that felt damp and unsteady despite all his effort. “One juvenile located alive. Female. Frightened, in shock. Continuing search for second.”

He didn’t say her name.

Couldn’t.

Because saying Stevie’s name into the radio might make this real in a way he still could not survive.

Rue shifted just enough to pull back and look at him.

Her face was blotched and wet, cheeks streaked with tears and grime. Her lower lip wouldn’t stop trembling. Her eyes looked too wide for her face, pupils blown, lashes stuck together.

“Don’t put me down,” she whispered.

The plea was so small it cut deeper than any scream could have.

“I’m not putting you down,” he said immediately.

And he meant it with every part of himself.

Even when his arms started to ache, his stump pushing in the his prosthetic.

Even when sweat slipped down between his shoulder blades and cooled there.

Even when the weight of his vest, his gear, his daughter, and his fear made every step feel heavier than the last.

He carried her all the way outside.

The daylight hit them hard, white and glaring, too bright after the institutional dimness of the halls. The air outside was full of motion and noise, sirens pulsing red blue light over faces gone pale, tires crunching over asphalt, officers shouting commands, paramedics wheeling stretchers, students crying into each other’s shoulders. The wind carried the smell of exhaust, hot pavement, cut grass from the field beyond the school, and the iron tang of blood from somewhere too close.

It was chaos.

Living, moving, screaming chaos.

And Jack scanned every face.

Too fast at first.

Then harder.

More carefully.

He looked for Stevie’s height, Stevie’s hair, Stevie’s quick stride, the stubborn set of her shoulders, the way she usually held herself like she didn’t need anybody even when she absolutely did.

Nothing.

His grip on Rue tightened before he could stop it.

“Jack—!”

He turned so quickly it made the world lurch.

You were there just beyond the barrier line, chest heaving, eyes wild with the kind of fear that erased everything else. Your face was pale and damp, strands of hair stuck to your temples, your whole body pitched forward like you might physically break through the police line if no one stopped you.

For one second, relief hit him so hard it almost made his knees give.

He moved toward you immediately.

And Rue,

Rue lifted her head, saw you, and the little thread she had been hanging from snapped clean in half.

“Mom—”

The cry tore out of her raw and desperate.

You reached for her at the same time Jack shifted her toward you, but he didn’t let go right away. For half a heartbeat the three of you were all holding onto each other, Rue between you, your hands in her hair and on her back, Jack’s hand still spread protectively between her shoulder blades like he physically could not trust the world enough to fully release her.

Then you had her.

And she folded into you with a sob so violent it shook her whole body.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered, your voice trembling against her hair. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

Jack stood close enough to feel the heat of both of you, his own breath still uneven now that the motion had stopped. The adrenaline was shifting, turning acidic in his veins. His fingers flexed uselessly at his sides, empty now, still remembering the weight of Rue against him.

“She—” Rue choked on the words. “We got separated—Stevie—”

And there it was.

The name out loud.

The fear given shape.

Jack looked at you.

Your face changed instantly, hope and horror colliding so fast it was almost visible.

He shook his head once.

Not found yet.

Not gone.

Not anything final.

Just missing.

And that was its own kind of torture.

His hand came to your back on instinct, grounding you as much as himself. The fabric of your shirt was warm and slightly damp beneath his palm. He could feel how hard you were shaking.

“We’re gonna find her,” he said quietly.

This time the words felt rougher coming out.

Less like certainty.

More like prayer.

You nodded anyway, because what else was there to do?

Around you, the scene kept moving. Stretchers rattled over uneven pavement. Somewhere nearby a student was screaming for her brother. A teacher with blood on one sleeve was repeating names from a clipboard in a voice gone numb. The smell of antiseptic from newly opened medical kits mixed with gasoline and dust and panic until the air itself felt hard to breathe.

Jack kept scanning.

Still scanning.

He could not stop.

Every group brought out of the school made his pulse kick harder. Every girl with similar hair or a familiar jacket made his body jolt before disappointment dropped like a stone through him again. Sweat cooled on his skin in ugly waves, leaving him chilled despite the sun. His hands felt cold and damp. His mouth was dry.

Then,

Movement near the main doors.

A group of older students being led out in a loose cluster, shoulders touching, eyes vacant, clothes disordered. Some crying openly. Some moving like sleepwalkers. One girl still had glitter on her cheek. Another was barefoot.

And there—

Stevie.

Jack knew her before his mind even fully registered her face.

A physical recognition.

His body surged with it.

She was pale, her expression blown open with shock, eyes red rimmed and unfocused as she stumbled forward with the others. There was dirt on her sleeve, a scrape near her wrist, and something in the way she moved, too careful, too delayed, made his chest seize.

“Stevie—” you breathed.

Her head snapped up.

She saw you.

And everything she had been holding shut gave way.

“Mom—”

She ran.

Not with grace.

Not with control.

Just pure survival.

Jack barely had time to step aside before she hit you hard enough to rock you backward. The impact made a wet, broken sound leave her as she folded into you, clutching at you with both arms like she was afraid her own hands might fail.

“I thought—” she gasped. “I thought—”

“I know,” you said, and now you were crying too, tears catching in your voice. “I know, baby. I know.”

Rue twisted instantly in your arms, reaching for her sister with frantic little hands.

“Stevie—”

Stevie pulled back enough to grab her, fingers tangling in her sleeve, forehead pressing against hers. Jack saw the way her own hands were shaking.

“You okay?” Stevie asked, voice cracking from strain, eyes darting over Rue’s face in desperate inventory.

Rue nodded too fast. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” Stevie said automatically. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Jack almost laughed at the lie of it if the sound wouldn’t have broken him.

Because she wasn’t okay.

Neither of them were.

He could see it in the way Stevie held her jaw too tight, the way Rue kept swallowing like her throat hurt from crying, the way both girls leaned toward each other and toward you as if proximity itself was life support.

Still, alive.

Alive.

The word moved through him like a pulse.

He stepped forward then, slower than he wanted to, because now that he was close enough to touch her, fear had become something almost unbearable. He put a hand on Stevie’s shoulder first. Felt the heat of her through the fabric, the slight flinch before she recognised him.

“Hey.”

She looked up.

And for a moment she was stripped of every layer she usually wore, no sarcasm, no control, no teenage sharpness.

Just a child.

His child.

“Dad,” she said, and her voice was so small it wrecked him.

He pulled her into him immediately.

One arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him even as she stayed half wrapped around you and Rue. It became a mess of limbs and tears and shaking breaths, no clean lines, no dignity, just family clinging to family because the alternative had come too close.

“I’ve got you,” he said quietly.

His throat burned.

For a second he closed his eyes.

Just one second.

Long enough to feel them all there.

Rue trembling, Stevie breathing hard against his chest, your hand pressed against one of his ribs as you tried to hold both girls. The wind moving over all of you. The sirens still wailing somewhere behind him. The sticky drying sweat on his palms. The terrible, overwhelming relief that left him weak in places he had not known could weaken.

When he opened his eyes again, Robby flashed through his mind so suddenly it was like another blow.

Robby, still at the hospital.

Robby, not knowing.

Robby, probably holding himself together by force and failing.

Robby, with both girls’ names turning over and over in his head like blades.

Jack swallowed hard.

“We need to get them checked,” he said, his voice finding structure again because it had to. “They need to be seen.”

You nodded immediately.

“Hospital.”

There was no argument.

Only movement.

Only the next thing.

But even as he helped guide all of you forward, Jack could still feel the school behind him, its stale air, its buzzing lights, the damp cold of fear on his skin, the sound of his own boots in those hallways while he searched for children who were more than children to him.

Later, he would remember how clammy his hands had been.

How his pulse had pounded in his gums.

How the smell of dust and gunpowder had lodged in the back of his nose and refused to leave.

How every doorway had looked like it might hold the end of his life as he knew it.

Later, he would remember that for all his training, all his skill, all the years spent running toward violence,

nothing had ever made him feel as helpless as calling for his daughters in a hallway full of silence. I would be his new nightmare fuel.

☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆

By the time the department fully shifted into mass casualty, it stopped feeling like a place and started feeling like pressure.

Everything pressed in.

Noise. Light. Movement. Expectation.

The air had changed, thicker now, warmer despite the aggressive air conditioning, saturated with the smell of antiseptic, sweat, and blood. It clung to the back of the throat, metallic and sharp, making every breath feel like it carried weight.

Robby was still moving.

That was the most unsettling part.

He hadn’t frozen.

Hadn’t broken down.

Hadn’t stepped away.

He had sharpened.

“Move—”

His voice cut across the trauma bay, precise and cold.

“Where’s imaging on that? No, I don’t need ‘soon,’ I need it now—”

A tray clattered somewhere behind him. Someone apologised. He didn’t acknowledge it.

His hands were steady, eerily steady, as he adjusted a line, checked a pupil response, pressed gauze into a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding. He could feel heat through his gloves, slickness under his palms, the subtle give of skin and muscle beneath pressure.

Normal sensations.

Familiar.

Grounding.

And yet,

His mind wasn’t here.

Not fully.

It kept slipping.

Stevie laughing at breakfast.

Rue standing in the doorway gripping her bag.

That quick hug before she left.

The memory hit him in flashes, too vivid, too close, layered violently over the present moment of blood and urgency.

They were there.

The thought repeated, relentless.

They are there.

“Robby—”

“I said move,” he snapped again, louder this time.

The room reacted to it.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

A glance exchanged.

A nurse moving faster than she already was.

Someone choosing not to speak when they normally would have.

Santos caught Frank’s eye across the room.

This wasn’t just pressure.

This was something unraveling under the surface.

Another gurney rolled in.

Another kid.

Crying this time, high and broken, the sound cutting through everything else like glass.

“I want my mom—”

The words hit something deep in Robby’s chest, something dangerously close to cracking open.

He swallowed hard.

Forced it down.

“Vitals,” he said, voice clipped.

“BP 90 over—”

“Too low. Fluids. Now.”

He leaned in, forcing his focus onto the patient in front of him. The boy smelled like sweat and fear and the faint chemical bite of gunpowder residue. His hands trembled against the sheets. His eyes darted wildly, not landing anywhere for long.

Alive.

Still alive.

Robby held onto that.

Because it was the only thing he could control.

Because he could not think about two other girls in another place that he could not reach.

“Dr. Robinavitch—”

“What?”

“They’re asking for you in—”

“I’m busy.”

Too sharp again.

The nurse hesitated, then nodded, stepping back.

Frank moved closer, lowering his voice.

“Robby.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Robby looked up.

And for a second, everything in his face was visible.

Fear.

Exhaustion.

Something close to panic trying to claw its way out.

Then it was gone again.

Locked down.

“They’re bringing more in,” Frank said carefully. “You need to pace yourself.”

“I am doing my job.”

The words landed like a wall.

And maybe that was the truth of it.

Because if he stopped,

If he let himself feel even a fraction of what was building in his chest, he wouldn’t be able to start again.

The ambulance doors opened again.

The sound cut through everything, metal, wheels, voices rising.

Robby turned automatically.

Another stretcher.

Another body.

For one fraction of a second,

His heart stopped.

Completely.

Because all he saw was a girl.

Wrong size.

Wrong hair.

Not—

The breath came back into him in a harsh, almost painful pull.

Not them.

Still not them.

Relief hit.

Then guilt followed immediately after, sharp and sour.

Because that meant it was someone else’s child.

He turned away before the thought could take root.

“Next,” he said.

And kept moving.

☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆

Then,

The doors opened again.

But this time,

No stretcher.

No paramedics shouting vitals.

Just,

You.

☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆

You walked in first.

And for a second, Robby didn’t understand what he was seeing.

Because his brain had been trained to expect blood, urgency, chaos through those doors.

Not, this.

You, breathless.

Hair slightly disheveled.

Eyes wide, searching.

Stevie beside you.

Rue clinging to your side.

Jack just behind.

Alive.

All of you.

The world didn’t stop.

But Robby did.

Completely.

The noise of the ER dropped away, not actually gone, but distant, muffled, like he had been submerged underwater. The bright lights blurred at the edges. The smell of antiseptic faded under something else, relief so sharp it almost hurt.

For half a second, he couldn’t move.

His chest locked.

His hands went still at his sides.

He just stared.

Like if he blinked, you might not be there anymore.

Then everything came rushing back at once.

Sound slammed into him, monitors, voices, footsteps. His heart kicked violently against his ribs. Air rushed back into his lungs too fast, almost dizzying.

And then,

He moved.

Fast.

Across the department.

Past people calling his name.

Past stretchers.

Past everything.

Nothing else existed.

Only them.

Only you.

“Hey—hey—”

His voice broke before he reached you.

His hands were on them immediately, almost frantic, like he needed physical confirmation. He touched arms, shoulders, faces, quick, searching, grounding himself in the reality of his girls.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

The words came out rough, uneven.

You nodded quickly. “They’re okay. We’re okay.”

Stevie nodded too, though her movements were slower, delayed.

Rue didn’t answer.

She just reached for him.

“Papa—”

That word,

It shattered whatever was left holding him together.

He pulled her into him instantly, one arm wrapping tight around her small frame, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her head like it always did.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice breaking openly now. “I’ve got you.”

He pressed his face briefly into her hair.

She smelled like dust.

Like outside air.

Like fear.

And underneath it,

Her.

Real.

Here.

Alive.

His grip tightened just a little too much before he forced himself to ease it.

Then he looked up.

At Stevie.

Really looked.

His eyes moved over her quickly, face, arms, shoulders, posture, searching for anything wrong.

“You hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. I’m okay.”

He didn’t fully believe it.

Not yet.

But she was standing.

She was speaking.

She was here.

And that had to be enough for this second.

His shoulders dropped slightly.

A fraction of the tension left his body.

Behind him, the department had gone quieter, not silent, but aware.

Watching.

Understanding exactly what this moment was.

Jack stepped closer.

Close enough to matter.

Robby’s eyes flicked to him.

Held there for a second.

Everything unspoken passing between them,

Fear. Relief. Shared terror neither of them would say out loud.

Then back to you.

Then to the girls.

Alive.

All of you.

And for a moment, that overrode everything else.

☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆

The ER didn’t settle.

It never really did after something like that.

But something shifted.

The sharp edge dulled just slightly.

And for Robby, the world narrowed again.

Not to patients.

To family.

“Let me check on you guys,” he said, guiding Stevie gently toward an open bay.

His touch was careful now.

Deliberate.

No urgency in it.

Just precision layered with something softer.

Stevie sat without arguing.

That alone told him everything.

The paper lining the exam bed crinkled under her weight, loud in the small space. The overhead light cast her face in pale tones, making the shadows under her eyes deeper, the redness more visible.

Rue stayed glued to you.

Her fingers twisted in your shirt, grip tight, unrelenting. Her other hand clutched the worn fabric of her comfort bear, knuckles pale. Her eyes moved constantly, tracking every motion in the room, doors opening, voices rising, Robby’s hands, Jack’s position behind her.

Hyperaware.

Not safe yet.

“You can stay right there,” Robby told her softly without looking away from Stevie. “I’m not taking her anywhere.”

Rue nodded quickly.

Didn’t loosen her grip.

Robby turned back to Stevie.

Up close, he could see more.

The faint sheen of sweat on her skin.

The way her pupils reacted just a fraction too slow.

A slight delay when she followed his finger with her eyes.

“Headache?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Dizzy?”

“A little.”

“Nauseous?”

“No.”

His jaw tightened.

Good.

Still, he continued.

His fingers were gentle as he checked her head, brushing lightly through her hair until,

There.

A small swelling.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

“You hit your head?”

“I think so,” she said. “I don’t really remember.”

That made something twist in his chest.

Memory gaps.

Adrenaline.

Shock.

“We’ll run a scan,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“I know,” he replied softly. “Humour me.”

She rolled her eyes.

Small.

Weak.

But real.

And that,

That was everything.

Across the bay, Rue made a small, strained sound.

Stevie looked at her instantly.

“Hey,” she said, softer now. “I’m okay.”

Rue shook her head.

“You got lost.”

The words were fragile.

Sharp in their simplicity.

Stevie’s face shifted, guilt, pain, something breaking through.

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t there.”

“I know.”

Rue’s breathing started to pick up again quick, shallow, uneven.

Jack stepped in smoothly.

“Hey,” he said, crouching slightly to meet her at eye level. “Look at me.”

She did.

Barely.

“Where are we?”

“…hospital.”

“Good. Who’s here?”

She swallowed.

“You… Mom… Papa… Stevie…”

“All of us,” he said.

Her breathing slowed.

Not steady.

But better.

Robby watched that interaction carefully.

Watched how easily Jack grounded her.

How she responded to him.

And something in his chest shifted.

Not resistance.

Not conflict.

Just recognition.

This worked.

All of this, messy, undefined, unspoken,

worked.

The scan came back clear.

No bleed.

No fracture.

Just shock.

Just fear.

Just something no machine could measure.

“She’s good,” Robby said quietly.

You exhaled.

Fully.

For the first time.

“Can we go home?” Stevie asked.

Her voice was small.

Tired in a way that went deeper than physical exhaustion.

Robby hesitated.

The hospital felt controlled.

Contained.

Out there, he couldn’t control anything again.

Jack saw it.

“They’re okay,” he said quietly.

Robby looked at him.

Held the gaze.

Then nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “You can go home, I’ll be right behind you guys.”

☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆

The house felt different that night.

Quieter.

The air heavier somehow, like it held onto everything that had happened instead of letting it pass through.

Stevie ended up on the couch.

Rue refused to leave her.

“I’m not going upstairs,” she said flatly.

“I’m literally fine,” Stevie muttered.

“No.”

No argument after that.

Blankets came out. Water. Snacks.

The soft rustle of fabric.

The quiet clink of glasses on the table.

Small sounds.

Careful ones.

Robby arrived ten minutes later.

Still in his hoodie. Still carrying the hospital with him, the smell of antiseptic clinging faintly, the tension not fully gone from his shoulders.

Jack came in right behind him.

No conversation needed. The girls didn’t question it. Of course they didn’t. They made space without being asked. And somehow, everyone fit.

Rue curled into Stevie’s side, her hand gripping fabric like an anchor.

Stevie leaned back, exhaustion pulling her down.

You sat close.

Robby on one side.

Jack on the other.

The room dim.

The only light coming from a lamp in the corner, casting everything in warm, soft gold instead of harsh white.

For a long time,

No one spoke.

Then Stevie’s voice, quiet:

“Everyone was screaming.”

The words hung in the air.

“I couldn’t find Rue,” she said. “I thought—”

Her voice broke.

Rue reached for her instantly.

“I’m here.”

Stevie nodded.

“I know.”

Silence again.

But different now.

Full.

Shared.

You reached out, Stevie’s hair for Rue’s shoulder.

Then,

Robby’s sleeve.

Jack’s arm.

Grounding yourself in all of them.

“I thought I lost you,” you said.

Not to one.

To all.

Robby exhaled slowly.

“Didn’t.”

Simple.

Steady.

Jack leaned back slightly, his arm resting behind you.

Close.

Present.

“You’re all here,” he added.

And that was it.

The truth of the night.

Not fixed.

Not healed.

But together.

☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆

Later, the house fell fully quiet.

The girls slept tangled together on the couch, Rue half curled into Stevie, her hand still gripping her sleeve even in sleep.

You stood in the doorway.

Robby beside you.

Jack just behind.

The room smelled faintly of detergent, warm fabric, and the lingering trace of the day none of you could quite shake.

“They didn’t even question it,” you said softly.

“What?” Robby asked.

“All of us being here.”

Jack let out a quiet breath.

“They never do.”

You looked at the girls.

Then at each other.

The lines between things didn’t feel as sharp anymore.

Maybe they never had been.

And maybe,

after everything they didn’t need to be.

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