The hospital doors locked behind the alarm.

Shooter inside. East Wing.

You barely processed it before Addison grabbed your wrist and pulled you into her office, her face pale but sharp with purpose. She locked the door, turned out the lights, and shoved you both beneath her desk as the sirens screamed overhead.

Now it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

You’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, knees to your chest, hand clamped hard over your mouth to keep the ragged breathing inside.

Addison doesn’t look at you. Not at first. Just stares ahead, body still as stone — until she glances over and sees your eyes wide, your chest heaving.

She whispers, “You’re panicking.”

You nod.

You can’t help it. Your heart’s clawing at your ribs like it wants out. The sound of heavy boots echoes down the hallway outside, slow and deliberate.

“Hey,” Addison says again, this time softer. “You’re okay.”

You shake your head. “He’s close—”

She reaches across the space between you and grips your hand tight, her own trembling now.

“You listen to me,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “I don’t care if we argue every day. If you beat me in every surgery. I don’t care that I want to scream every time you walk into a room.”

She swallows.

“You don’t die here.”

The door handle jiggles.

You both freeze. Breathless. Still.

Addison leans in, forehead resting against yours, both of you tucked into a pocket of terror beneath a desk that suddenly feels like a coffin.