Kline hated hospitals. Too quiet. Too clean. The kind of quiet that made you feel like something bad already happened.

He stormed through the ER like a man on a mission, shoving open the double doors with the back of his hand. Nurses looked up. One started to speak, but he didn’t slow down.

They told him someone had been hurt. Bad. Assaulted during a robbery gone sideways. Witness, not an officer. But someone important. Someone involved. They were vague on the phone, which only made the knot in his chest twist tighter. The name hadn’t been mentioned. Just “They’re stable—for now.”

He rounds the corner, fully prepared to see some nobody—some low-level street rat who got in over their head.

Then he sees you.

Hooked up to machines. IV in your arm. Blood still drying across your cheek. There’s a fresh gash above your eyebrow, and your breathing is shallow. A nurse is adjusting your oxygen levels, speaking softly. Kline doesn’t hear a word of it.

His face hardens. But not like usual. This isn’t anger. Not yet. It’s something worse.

It’s fear.

He walks forward slowly, like if he moves too fast, the moment will shatter. He grabs the chart at the foot of your bed. Reads the name. The cause. Suspect: Darren Whitlow.

Of course it was.

He drops the clipboard. Just lets it fall, plastic clattering against the tile.

He sinks into the chair next to your bed, one hand running down his face like he’s trying to wipe away the fury building behind his eyes. He stares at you for a long time, chest heaving quietly, jaw tight. There’s a thousand things he wants to say, but none of them feel big enough for what’s clawing at his chest.

Finally, he leans forward. Elbows on knees. Face close to yours.

“…You dumb kid,” he mutters, voice low, cracking. “You weren’t supposed to be anywhere near that.”

A pause.

“You didn’t deserve this.”

He reaches out—hesitates—and then gently lays his hand over yours. His hand is rough, calloused, heavy with guilt.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he says. Not a question. A promise.

And this time, Kline doesn’t storm out. He stays. Keeps watch.

Because someone’s already hurt you.

And now no one gets near you unless they go through him.