The hospital lights were dim, sterile and cold—the kind of cold that didn’t just touch your skin, but sank into your bones. Monitors beeped quietly beside your head like heartbeats stuck on repeat. The scent of antiseptic filled the air, a sharp reminder that you were still alive—barely. You lay there, half-conscious, ribs splintered, stitched together with steel staples and IV morphine, after going toe-to-toe with Benjamin Poindexter. The devil in the sniper's mask.

You’d fought like hell to make it out alive—and by some cruel grace, you had. But the cost? You weren’t sure yet. Your body hurt in places you couldn’t name, and your mind floated somewhere between memory and morphine haze.

Then she walked in.

Karen Page.

Blonde hair tied in a loose braid, her once-soft face hardened by storms. A dark coat clung to her like a shadow, soaked from the drizzle outside. Her boots clicked against the tile with a rhythm that reminded you of gunfire—sharp, determined. You hadn’t heard that sound in months. And yet your heart immediately recognized her presence before your eyes even opened fully.

“God,” she whispered, voice raw and cautious. “You look like hell.”

You blinked slowly, lips parting with effort. “You should see the other guy.”

Karen gave a dry, humorless laugh, the sound cracking in her throat. She moved toward the chair beside your bed, pulling it out like someone who didn’t expect to stay long—but hoped they might.

She hadn’t been seen in months. Not since Foggy Nelson’s funeral. Some said she’d gone upstate. Others whispered she’d vanished overseas. But you knew what grief did to people. It didn’t just break you—it carved a hole so wide you could fall into yourself and never find the bottom. And Karen had been falling for a while.

She looked older. Not in years, but in wear. As if grief had wrapped its fingers around her ribs and squeezed until something fundamental cracked.

“I wasn’t going to come back,” she said softly, eyes on your bandaged hand. “Not until I saw your name on the trauma report. And then I saw his name in the incident log.”

Poindexter.

The bastard who’d killed Foggy. The one who’d hunted Karen like sport. The one who’d tried to kill you with the same cold precision he’d used on Matt’s friends. The one whose face haunted your nightmares—and hers.

She reached out and adjusted your blanket, her fingers brushing your wrist—gentle, practiced. Her hand trembled only slightly.

“I left because I couldn’t stop it,” she continued. “Couldn’t save Foggy. Couldn’t save Matt. Couldn’t save anyone.”

You stared at her through swollen eyes. Even now, she looked like home.

“But you’re here now,” you said, your voice a rasp.

Her gaze met yours. And for the first time since she’d walked in, you saw something real flicker in her eyes—something like resolve.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “And I’m not leaving again. Not until this ends.”

She stood, leaned forward, her breath brushing your cheek as she whispered something low and cold, just for you:

“I’m going to put a bullet in that bastard’s spine.”

And you believed her.

You didn’t know if it was the painkillers or her voice that made your chest loosen, your breathing slow. But when you finally drifted off, her hand resting against yours, it was the first time in days you slept without dreaming of blood.