Page 125 of Vital Signs

"You're safe," I said, adjusting his IV flow. The words felt true in a way they hadn't in years. "You were in a medical trial that went wrong, but you're safe now."

Behind me, I heard the soft scrape of chair legs against concrete. The quiet efficiency of tools being arranged. Misha worked with the same precise care I was using to monitor heart rates and oxygen levels.

War handed me a syringe of saline solution. "The woman needs fluids. Her kidney function is compromised but stable."

I moved to her bedside, explaining each procedure as I administered the IV push. Her eyes tracked my movements, confusion giving way to something like trust. When was the last time someone in a medical setting had treated her like a person instead of a problem?

The sound of running water echoed from across the room. Misha cleaning up. I focused on adjusting medication dosages, checking breathing sounds through my stethoscope, using skills I'd thought were lost forever.

"Am I going to be okay?" the woman whispered.

"Yes," I said, meaning it completely. "Your kidneys took some damage, but they're recovering. You'll need follow-up care, but you're going to be fine."

Her hand found mine, and she squeezed. "Thank you."

The simple words hit deeper than they should have. When had I last heard them in a medical context? When had I last deserved them?

A soft thud from behind me. Something heavy being moved. I kept my attention on the patients, on the living people who needed my help. On choosing who I wanted to be.

War appeared at my elbow with discharge instructions already typed up. "We'll get them to a hospital once we're done here. Different hospitals. Different stories. But they'll get the care they need."

I nodded, checking the third patient's pupils for signs of neurological damage. Normal response. He'd make a full recovery with proper treatment.

The running water stopped. Footsteps. The soft sound of plastic being sealed.

"Hunter." Misha's voice, closer now.

I turned to find him standing behind me, no blood on his clothes, hands clean. The chair where Wright had died was empty. Whatever remained of the doctor had been packaged for disposal.

"It's done," Misha said simply.

I reached for him, pulling him close enough to rest my forehead against his. He smelled like antiseptic and something chemical I didn't want to identify. But underneath was still him. Still the man who'd saved me from my own darkness by taking it into himself.

"Thank you," I whispered.

His arms tightened around me. "Always."

The recording device continued blinking red, Wright's confession preserved for posterity. Proof of systematic murder. Evidence that would bring down an entire network of corruption.

But more importantly, three people breathed steadily behind us. Three lives saved. Three futures given back because Misha had chosen protection over personal vengeance.

Wright was gone. Not just dead, but erased. Anonymous meat that could never be traced back to Dr. Elliot Wright. He'd become what he'd made his victims: nothing. No identity. No dignity. No memory.

The perfect symmetry of justice.

"We're done here," Shepherd announced, already coordinating cleanup with War and Eli.

"Come on," Misha said, taking my hand.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

"My van," he said, pulling me toward the exit.

I still didn’t know where we were going, but it didn’t matter. Not as long as Misha was with me.

Wright's blood still clungunder my fingernails.

Hunter hadn't spoken since we'd left The Factory, but the silence thrummed with unfinished business. The promises whispered in that concrete hellscape had sustained us through interrogation and execution. Now, with Wright silenced and his blood under my skin, we had to figure out how to live with what we'd done.