Page 46 of Infamous
“I’ve got him,” I answer, too quickly, because losing anyone tonight might break what little I have left.
The man stabilizes. Machines beep in perfect rhythm. Controlled chaos. Predictable. Manageable.
But the silence between those beeps - it feels all wrong. Weighted.
I feel it before I see it. The air changes suddenly. It’s electric, alive, charged with a familiarity I can’t pinpoint. The fine hairs on my arms rise.
My gaze drifts to the observation window. A shadow stands just beyond the light. Still. Watching. The shape of him sharpens in the glass. Broad shoulders. Straight spine. The outline of a man built from tension and silence. My pulse stumbles.
It can’t be.
I blink hard, searching for logic, for reason. Maybe it’s a cop waiting for an update. Maybe it’s a trick of reflection. But my body knows better. Itremembers.
Because no one stands like that. No onemoveslike that. Except Lucian.
A chill scrapes up my back, crawling against the length of my spine. The room narrows, the noise of the ER dimming until it’s just me and that shadow behind the glass.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. He justwaits. And then he’s gone. Like he was never there to begin with.
“Doctor?” a nurse snaps, jarring me back.
I blink, force my eyes away from the window. “Yeah,” I manage, voice thin.
My hands steady again, finishing the last suture with clinical precision. The patient’s breathing evens. Life returns to the room. But my own chest won’t unclench.
When I finally glance back toward the glass, there’s nothing there. Just my reflection staring back. Pale, tired, hollow-eyed.
Still, my lips part. The word slips out before I can stop it, barely a whisper, a confession in the dark.
“…Lucian?”
The monitor beeps once. A sound so sharp it feels like an answer.
But there’s only the hum of machines, the hiss of the vents, and the hollow space where his name still echoes.
29
LUCIAN
Maybe this wasn’t the best idea I’ve had this week.
I stand at the window outside the ER, where the fluorescent light bleeds through glass and makes everything inside look unreal.
Through the glass, I see her.
She’s leaning over a patient, gloved hands steady, eyes sharp, jaw tight with that kind of focus that used to make me forget the world. Even from here, I can read the exhaustion in her shoulders. I can almost hear the sigh she’ll let out when she’s finally alone.
Then her head lifts. Her gaze sweeps the corridor and lands right where I stand.
My breath stutters. For a fraction of a second, her eyes sharpen like shefeelsme there. Recognition ripples through the glass between us, cold and electric.
I step back into the shadow of the wall before logic catches up. The reflection swallows me. The air feels too small for the both of us.
When she moves toward the doors, I’m already gone.
Outside, the night stretches open, cool and slick with mist. Istand under the edge of the awning, hidden beneath the hum of the parking lot lights, waiting for her to exit. She lingers by the doors, rubs at her temple, then starts walking. I wait two beats, then follow.
I know her route by heart now. Down the main street, left at the corner where the lamppost flickers, past the old florist’s window she sometimes pauses at. Tonight, she doesn’t just stop - she goes inside. When she comes back out, there’s a small bunch of flowers in her hand, and she keeps walking, head bowed against the wind. The cemetery gates groan when she pushes them open.
