Chapter 2 - The Ghost Ward"We’re moving him," Cara whispered fiercely, ignoring the protests building in Dr. Hale’s throat. "Right now. Through the old maintenance corridor."
"Are you insane?" Hale hissed, his voice cracking. "The maintenance wing has been condemned for three years! There are no monitors, no oxygen lines, no—"
"That’s exactly why Lorenzo’s men won't check it," Dominic interrupted, his voice gaining strength with every second. He winced as he tried to sit up, a fresh bead of sweat breaking across his forehead. He released Cara’s top, his hand dropping to press against the makeshift chest tube she had improvised. "Help me up, Jennings. Or let my cousin find me and wear your skin as a coat. Your choice."
Cara didn't hesitate. She locked her shoulder under Dominic’s good arm, ignoring the searing pain she must have been causing him. Hale, realizing he was already too deep into the criminal underworld to turn back, grabbed the IV pole, yanking the wheels free from the automatic track.
They slipped out of Trauma Room 4 just as heavy boots echoed down the main corridor.
"Check every room!" a harsh, unfamiliar voice bellowed—one of Lorenzo’s enforcers. "Lorenzo says Dominic died with a knife in his back, not bullets. Find the body. Anyone standing in the way gets put down."
Hale pushed open the heavy double doors marked AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY – DO NOT ENTER. The air inside the old wing smelled of damp concrete, rusted iron, and decades of forgotten medical waste. Dust motes danced in the pale beam of a single flashlight Cara had snatched from the trauma cart.
They navigated the labyrinth of dark hallways, past rows of plastic-wrapped operating tables and defunct X-ray machines. Dominic’s breathing grew ragged, each inhalation sounding like crushed glass.
"Just a little further," Cara panted, her arms burning from supporting half the weight of a man who ruled the desert underworld. "There’s an old recovery ward at the end of this hall. It has a manual backup oxygen tank."
They reached Room 412—a relic from the 1970s. Cara kicked open the warped wooden door, and they hauled Dominic onto a squeaking, iron-framed cot.
As Hale scrambled to hook up the portable oxygen mask, Dominic grabbed the front of Cara’s scrubs again, pulling her close. His pale blue eyes burned with a dangerous, fanatical light.
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"You saved my life twice tonight, nurse," Dominic murmured, blood staining his teeth as he smirked. "That makes you mine. Now tell me... do you know who really pulled the trigger tonight?"
Before Cara could answer, a loud, metallic crash echoed from the hallway outside. Someone—or something—had just entered the condemned wing.
