Page 75 of Vital Signs

Good thing I had plenty of both.

Hunter's breathing steadied for the first time in hours. I allowed myself to check my phone.

Seventeen missed calls from War. Twelve from River. And three from numbers I didn't recognize—probably lawyers.

One voicemail. I hit play, volume low.

"Dr. Wright will drop charges if you return the materials within twenty-four hours. Otherwise, we proceed with prosecution."

The message ended. I deleted it.

Around four AM, the fever dreams started. Hunter thrashed, fighting invisible demons—psychological horrors the drugs had kept buried.

"No!" The word burst from him suddenly, his back arching off the bed. His arms flailed wildly, hands grasping at nothing.

Guttural sounds tore from his throat as he thrashed against the sheets. His face contorted in pain and terror, tears leaking from beneath closed eyelids.

His arm shot out violently, nearly ripping the IV from his vein. Without thinking, I lunged forward, grabbing his wrist to stop him from tearing out the catheter.

"Hunter, no!"

His other hand shot up, gripping my throat, eyes wild and unseeing. His fingers tightened for a terrifying moment, his face twisted in fear and rage.

"Hunter," I choked out, not fighting against his grip. "It's Misha."

His grip loosened. His eyes focused on my face, confusion replacing the fear as he began to recognize me.

"Misha?" His hand fell away from my throat.

"I'm here." I reached out slowly, taking his hand in mine. "You were having a nightmare."

The contact seemed to anchor him. The last traces of terror faded from his eyes as he squeezed my fingers.

"I’m right here," I assured him, squeezing. "You're safe."

"Don't leave again." His voice cracked on the words.

"I won't," I promised, meaning it more than he knew. "I'm staying right here."

He nodded once, eyes slipping closed, but his grip on my hand remained tight. Another spasm wracked him, less intense but still painful to watch.

When it passed, he didn't open his eyes again, just lay there breathing raggedly.

"I'd do it again," I whispered, too quiet for him to hear. "I'd bring you back every time."

The worst hit just before dawn. Hunter's temperature spiked suddenly to 103.5. His body convulsed with seizure-like spasms, limbs jerking without rhythm. The sounds that tore from his throat weren't human anymore.

The numbers climbed higher. Fear clawed at my throat.

"War!" I shouted, voice cracking. "He needs help!"

War rushed into the room, already assessing. He took Hunter's temperature again, jaw tightening at the reading.

"103.8," he said, professional instincts overriding any personal judgment. Ice packs appeared from a nearby cooler—groin, armpits, neck. "Major arteries. Cool the blood directly."

He cranked the IV to maximum flow, hanging a fresh liter of cold saline. His hands moved efficiently, preparing syringes.

"He's in pain," I said, voice tight as I watched Hunter thrash against the ice packs.