Chapter 23 · Ventilation Choke

Sparks rained through the vent grate like hot orange needles.

One hit my shoulder. Burned straight through my scrub top before my brain registered the sting.

"They're on the roof," Theron barked through my earpiece. Static chewed half the words. "Nora. They're on the damn roof."

"Yeah. Kind of noticed."

I kicked the triage cart aside and dropped to the tile beside Julian.

He was flat on his stomach. Blood pooled under his chest in a slick, widening circle. The silver stink poured off him—wet copper, cold steel, that caustic acid stench that sticks to the back of your throat and refuses to let go.

"Sitrep," he rasped. His forehead pressed into the floor.

"You don't get a sitrep. You get to not die." I shoved both hands under his shoulders and hauled. He barely shifted. Two hundred and forty pounds of dead-weight Alpha with a shattered spine and legs that weren't listening anymore. "Push, damn it."

"Can't." His jaw clenched against the tile. "Nothing. From the ribs down."

Six hours ago I had my fist against his sternum, cracking him back to life on this exact floor.