Page 113 of Vital Signs

His radio crackled. "Primary team has reached the extraction point. You guys almost done?"

"Just finishing up," he replied, wiping sweat from his forehead despite the basement chill. "Two more minutes."

He made a final connection at the electrical panel before reporting in. "Everything's set. Timer active."

"Good. Wrap it up. Martinez is already in the car."

He took one final look around the basement, eyes sliding over the patients. "What about these three?"

"Not our problem," came the reply. "Fire takes care of everything."

He shrugged, seemingly unbothered, and headed up the stairs. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

I waited thirty seconds before emerging from hiding. My legs threatened to fold beneath me, knees weak from adrenaline and fear. The knife I'd been clutching had carved its shape into my palm, blood slicking the handle like a ritual sacrifice.

Options. I need options.

The timer on the panel ticked down from five minutes. Enough to get them out. Maybe.

I cut the restraints on the first patient and paused. Wright was escaping while I chose three strangers over the confession that would make him scream Tyler's name in recognition.

The knife trembled in my hand. This moment would define me—the broken thing seeking revenge, or the partner Hunterneeded. Someone who chose the harder path because it saved lives.

My father taught that survival meant making choices that kept you breathing. Hunter taught that some choices were worth the risk.

Wright made these people into objects, just like Roche made me into poses. But we weren't objects. We were Tyler Graham. Hunter Song. Misha Vasiliev. Real people with names and stories.

Tyler's face flashed behind my eyelids, but not the corpse from my examination table. The living Tyler, who'd smiled in photos with his new ID. The one who would’ve sat up late talking with Hunter by the fire. The Tyler who hadlived.

If I let these patients burn for my satisfaction, I'd be betraying everything Tyler had stood for.

Every cut through the restraints was cutting myself free from years of powerlessness. Every patient I freed was proving that trauma could create protectors, not just victims. The first restraint snapped under my blade like absolution.

I slung the first patient over my shoulder. The second was half-conscious, mumbling through blue lips, but able to stumble if supported.

From upstairs came wood splintering, then War's voice, low and vicious. Wright was cornered.

Four minutes. Time to get them out and prove I'd learned the difference between justice and revenge. That loving Hunter had made me someone worth coming home to.

My hands worked restraints while my mind counted heartbeats. Not just the patients'—mine. Still fighting, determined to return to the man who'd taught me survival was an act of love.

I had the last cuff halfway open when the sounds above went quiet. Not the good kind of quiet. The wrong kind.

"Misha!" War's voice again, but farther this time, like he'd moved away from the basement door.

The final cuff gave. I turned toward the stairs, hefting the second patient toward the stairs, hope flaring that War had Wright secured upstairs—

And froze.

Wright stood in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, the other holding a pistol steady at my chest. His shirt was ripped, a dark stain spreading along one sleeve, but his aim didn't shake.

"Step away from them," he said, eyes flat as glass. "Now."

Fuck.

The clinic looked deadfrom the outside, but my nerves were eating me alive.

Fluorescent glow bled through windows like autopsy suite lights. The lights were harsh and artificial, designed to show every flaw and failure. The same janitor pushed his cart between rooms. The same woman paced near reception.