Page 67 of Vital Signs

Nikita checked his watch. "Half-past nine."

"Almost five hours?" Panic surged through me. "I've been gone almost five hours."

"Yes." Nikita adjusted his tie. "I'm taking you home."

"No. I need to go to Walmart."

Nikita turned to face me, eyes cold. "This isn't the time for shopping, Michael. Whatever toiletries you need can wait. The family wants you home where you're safe."

"Hunter's alone. He needs me." My voice cracked, desperation scraping raw on the way up. "Either take me to Walmart or let me out here. I'll walk."

"Wright's lawyers filed paperwork this morning," Nikita said. "Restraining order against you and your friend. They're also petitioning for custody of Tyler's body, claiming research protocols give them authority."

"That's—"

"Legal? Probably not. But it'll take time to fight, and Wright's buying time. Every day Tyler stays in limbo is another day Wright can erase evidence, threaten witnesses, build his defense." Nikita's hands tightened on the wheel. "He's been busy while you've been in lockup."

The words hit like blows, but they couldn't penetrate. Tyler mattered. The investigation mattered. But right now, Hunter was dying alone in a Walmart parking lot.

Nikita sighed and then nodded to the driver, who changed direction at the next light.

"This obsession with Wright is dangerous enough. But this... connection to a homeless addict?" He shook his head. "You're making yourself vulnerable to someone who will choose drugs over you every time."

"You don't know him."

"I know addiction. I know what it does to people. To families." He looked out the window. "The Laskins took you in. They protected you. And this is how you repay them?"

"I survived Roche's laboratory and Paris," I said. "I don't need another father figure telling me what's best for me. I'm an adult who can make my own choices."

Nikita's eyes widened slightly before his expression hardened. "I've burned bridges today that can't be rebuilt,” he said finally. “Don't make me regret it."

"I appreciate what you did back there," I said, my tone softening slightly. "But I won't be treated like a child who needs to be saved from himself."

Nikita studied me with new interest, reassessing. "You remind me of War at your age. Stubborn. Determined." His mouth curved into something almost like respect. "Just remember, Michael, everyone needs saving sometimes. Even those of us who survive the impossible."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The car turned into the Walmart parking lot. My eyes scanned desperately for the van. There. Still parked where I'd left it. No ambulance. No cops. A tiny spark of hope flickered inside me.

I threw open the door and ran to the van.

The smell hit first. Sweat. Vomit. Blood. The sour reek of a body in distress.

Hunter lay slumped in the driver's seat, head tilted back, lips blue-tinged in the winter light. A syringe lay on the floor beside him. His chest barely moved, breaths shallow and irregular.

"No, no, no." I crawled inside, heart shattering in my chest. My fingers trembled as I pressed them to his neck. His pulse fluttered weakly, too slow. "Hunter. Hunter, please."

His lips were turning darker, skin gray-tinged. He was dying right in front of me thinking I'd abandoned him like everyone else.

The image of his DNR/DNI tattoo flashed through my mind, stark black letters I'd traced with my fingers the night before.

His choice. His body. His terms. But what was I supposed to do? Let him die?

My hands hovered, unable to move. Paralyzed.

This was exactly what Roche had done. He’d systematically violated my consent for over a year. I'd sworn I would never become that. Never override someone's choices about their own body. Never decide for someone else what they could handle, what they should want, what was "best" for them.

But the alternative was letting him die thinking I'd abandoned him.

I couldn't do it.