Chapter 264: Chapter Two Hundred and Sixty-One — Consent

By the time the hospital entrance looms ahead, red lights reflecting in violent streaks across the glass façade, his hands are numb on the steering wheel. He does not feel the leather beneath his palms or the tremor in his fingers. He is gripping hard enough that his knuckles should ache, but the sensation does not register. His jaw is locked so tightly that pain hums behind his ears, yet he barely notices.

The ambulance ahead of him swings sharply into the emergency bay, its rear lights flashing in frantic bursts of red and white. The world has narrowed to those lights. They are the only thing he sees. The only thing he follows.

Just a few minutes.

The phrase loops through him like punishment. He does not realize how close he is until the ambulance brakes hard—suddenly, violently—its rear doors shuddering as it jerks to a stop beneath the emergency canopy.

Zane is still accelerating.

The realization hits too late.

He slams his foot onto the brake pedal with brutal force. The tires scream against pavement. The car fishtails slightly before catching traction, his body lunging forward against the seatbelt, the strap cutting into his chest as the hood dips within inches of the ambulance’s rear bumper. For a suspended second, everything is silent inside the car except his own breathing—wild, ragged, animal. His heart is no longer pounding. It is hammering, slamming against his ribs as if trying to escape.

He stares at the ambulance doors in front of him, unable to process how close he came to crashing into it. If he had hit it—if he had delayed them even seconds—the thought detonates inside his skull. He sucks in air but it does not fill his lungs properly. His fingers loosen from the wheel only to clamp down again because they do not know what else to hold. He almost laughs—not from humor, but from the violent, surreal edge of it all.

You idiot.

He forces the gear into park. The movement is jerky, uncoordinated. He fumbles the door handle once before getting it open. The engine is still running when he steps out. He does not turn it off. He does not remember locking the car. He only sees the rear doors of the ambulance fly open.

Paramedics move immediately—efficient, fast. One jumps down from the back. Another unlocks the stretcher mount. They are already speaking in clipped, practiced tones.

"On three."

"Maintain pressure."

"Clear the path."

Zane moves toward them, but his legs feel unreliable, as if the ground beneath him cannot be trusted. The emergency bay lights are too bright. The smell of exhaust mixes with antiseptic and something metallic that still clings to his skin. They pull the stretcher free, and he catches a glimpse of her face beneath the oxygen mask—still, too still. The paramedic inside is pressing hard against her abdomen, his gloved hand unrelenting.

"BP holding."

The words slice through him.

They begin moving fast. The automatic doors slide open ahead of them. Hospital staff are already waiting—a trauma team in blue scrubs, gloves, masks, a doctor pulling on protective eyewear while walking. The stretcher wheels hit the slight lip at the doorway and jolt. Zane’s heart stutters violently at the movement.

"Careful," he snaps without meaning to.

No one responds. They are already inside.

He follows too closely, nearly colliding with the back of the stretcher as they rush down the corridor. Fluorescent lights blur overhead. The white walls feel aggressive, clinical, indifferent.

"Single GSW right lateral abdomen."

"No exit wound."

"Internal bleed suspected."

"Fluids running."

The words are exchanged above her body like coordinates, like she is a problem to solve. He knows that is what they are doing. He is grateful. He hates it.

They reach a set of double doors marked TRAUMA and do not slow. The doors swing inward.

He tries to follow.

A hand comes up against his chest—firm, unyielding.

"That’s as far as you go."

The words do not make sense at first. He looks down at the hand on him, then past it to the stretcher disappearing into the room. He sees Willow’s hair for one final second before the doors swing shut. They close with soft mechanical certainty.

Sealed. Gone.

The tremor does not stop. It is not violent or cinematic; it is small and constant, running through his hands and forearms like an electrical fault. He presses his palms together hard, trying to steady them, but the shaking continues beneath the surface. His breathing is uneven—not gasping, not dramatic, just slightly off rhythm, like he cannot quite draw in a full breath. He keeps staring at the trauma doors.

He does not know how much time passes before someone speaks directly to him.

"Sir?"

He does not respond at first.

"Sir."

He turns slowly. A nurse stands a few feet away, holding a clipboard. She is speaking carefully, her voice calm but firm.

"I need you to come with me for a moment."

He looks at her. He hears the words. They do not land properly.

"Come with me," she repeats gently. "We need some information."

Information.

He blinks, nods once, and stands, though he does not remember deciding to. His legs feel unreliable—not weak, just disconnected. He follows her down the corridor, aware of his shoes moving against the floor but not fully feeling it.

She leads him to a small intake desk just outside the emergency wing. A chair waits there. She gestures toward it.

"Go ahead and sit."

He lowers himself into it automatically. Up close, she sees it—the fixed stare, the shaking hands, the delay in response. Her expression shifts almost imperceptibly.

"Can you tell me your name?" she asks.

He opens his mouth. There is a pause before the answer comes.

"Zane."

"Last name?"

He gives it. She nods, writing quickly.

"And the patient?"

His jaw tightens.

"Willow."

"Last name?"

He answers.

"Date of birth?"

He stares at the desk for a second too long. He knows it. Of course he knows it. It simply does not rise to the surface fast enough. She waits. Does not rush him. He says it finally.

She continues with more questions—address, emergency contact, insurance. The words are clear. He understands them individually. Together, they feel unreal, administrative, detached from the fact that Willow is somewhere behind those doors with people cutting into her body. His hands are shaking harder now.

The nurse notices and pauses mid-sentence.

"Okay," she says quietly, setting the clipboard down. "Take a breath for me."

He does not. Not intentionally. His body simply continues doing whatever it is doing. She steps away briefly and returns with a small paper cup from the water cooler. The cup crinkles slightly in her grip as she hands it to him.

"Drink this."

He takes it, but his hand trembles enough that water spills over the rim onto his knuckles. He looks at it blankly before lifting it to his mouth. The water tastes faintly metallic. He swallows automatically.

"You’re in shock," she says gently, not as a diagnosis but as an explanation.

He stares at her.

"I understand," she continues, keeping her tone steady. "But we need information, and we need your signature for consent forms."

Consent.

The word lands heavier than the others. He nods once. She reaches out and places her hand lightly on his forearm—not dramatic, not lingering, just grounding.

"They’re doing everything they can," she says. "You need to stay steady for her, okay?"

He blinks. Stay steady. The phrase feels impossible and mandatory at the same time. He nods again.

She turns the clipboard back toward him and points to a line.

"Sign here."

He takes the pen. It slips slightly between his fingers before he tightens his grip. His signature is uneven, the letters barely controlled. He stares at it afterward as if it belongs to someone else.

"Good," she says softly.

She collects the paperwork.

"We’ll come get you as soon as we have an update."

He nods again. She hesitates, then squeezes his arm once more before stepping away.

Zane remains seated, the empty paper cup crushed slightly in his hand, his mind still not fully catching up to the fact that everything now depends on decisions being made behind doors he cannot open. He breathes—in, out, in, out—not because he feels better, but because he has been told to.