Prologue

Wednesday, May 11 th

11:51 p.m.

Blood. There's so much blood.

On my hands.

In my hair.

Vacant eyes. Mouth agape. A moment frozen in time.

Panic surges through me. The scent of copper and bleach permeates the air, offering a temporary escape as my mind tries to process the scene before me. I press trembling fingers on her neck in a desperate search for a pulse.

It's weak.

Time screeches to a halt, each second an eternity as my mind spirals. My thoughts fragment. I should call for help. The room around me blurs as I try to pull myself back into the present—to the limp form in my lap.

But it's no use.

There has to be something I can do.

As the minutes slip away, I feel myself sinking deep into the quicksand of my mind, paralyzed by what lies in front of me. My hands are shaking. My breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. My thoughts drift again, yanking me back to the past.

I remember the last time I tried to save someone, the last time I failed. The memory plays out vividly in my mind—the gurney, the tears, the haunting feeling of helplessness. I swore I would never feel that vulnerable again.

But here I am, another life slipping through my fingers.

My vision blurs as tears well up, and I force myself to blink them away. I can't let this happen. I have to be present, stay focused.

"Hello! Somebody? Anybody!" The elevator chimes, and I stare at it, praying the doors will hurry and open. Something hits my left thigh, and I glance over; the woman's arm has fallen, and there is nothing putting pressure on her wound.

Her fucking gunshot wound.

I close my eyes and hope she's lost consciousness, but when I hold two fingers to the side of her throat, I can't find a pulse. I press my hands against her wound, but the blood stops pumping from between my fingers, and I start chest compressions. I haven't seen this much blood since med school.

"No, no, no. Fuuuck." My words ring in my ears as I lean back, trying to haul myself out from under her weight. I press my fingers to her throat again. Still nothing.

What if the person on the elevator is coming for her, to make sure their job is done? I slip again on the pooling blood, my hands barely catching me before my face is within an inch of the linoleum. I stand slowly. And back away from the body, watching as the doors glide open.

I freeze.

But no one exits.

And I run.