The hospital felt different tonight—quieter, but not in a peaceful way. Something was off. You could feel it before you even heard the hushed voices of your coworkers down the hall.

“Did you check the supply closet?” someone asks, urgency laced in their voice.

A bad feeling settles in your gut as you push past them, stepping into the dimly lit room. And then you see her.

Charlotte.

She’s curled up against the shelves, barely holding herself upright, her lab coat stained with something dark. Her hands tremble where they grip her arms, her breathing shallow. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge anyone. her arms are covered in cuts and blood her left arm definitely broken, her face bruised and cut up.

Someone whispers, “Oh my God.”

You drop to your knees beside her, careful, slow. “Charlotte?” Your voice is softer than you’ve ever used with her. She flinches, just barely, and it makes your chest tighten.

Her eyes flicker to yours—just for a second—but it’s enough. There’s something there, something raw and shaken, but still her.

“We’ve got you,” you promise. “You’re safe now.”

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. But when you carefully reach out, offering your hand, she doesn’t pull away.