I DRAGGED A BLEEDING STRANGER INTO MY APARTMENT AND STITCHED HIM UP—BY MORNING HE WAS GONE, BUT THE BLACK SUV OUTSIDE MADE ME REALIZE WHO I HAD JUST SAVED

The metallic click of the supply room door latch locking from the inside sounded like a gunshot in the sterile silence.

The heavy-set man blocking my path wasn't wearing a police uniform. He wore a standard hospital orderly scrub top, but his knuckles were scarred, his nose had been broken at least twice, and the way he shifted his weight revealed a lethal, practiced stance.

“Detective Reed sends his regards, nurse,” the man rasped, taking a slow step toward me. “He says you have something that belongs to his employers. A business card. And a memory of who you treated in your kitchen.”

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I backed away until my spine pressed hard against a towering metal shelf stacked with boxes of surgical gloves and saline bags.

The cream-colored card.

Detective Reed hadn’t bought my lie. He had spent the last three days digging, realizing that as an ER nurse, I wouldn’t just throw away bloody clothes or leave a wound untreated. He had figured out I was the ghost doctor who had pulled Grant Mercer back from the brink of death. And now, Reed’s corrupt bosses—the rival syndicate gunning for Mercer’s throne—wanted that card back. Because that card was a direct, untraceable line to the most dangerous man in Chicago.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I breathed, keeping my voice as steady as I could while my fingers frantically searched the shelf behind me for anything heavy.

“Don’t make this messy,” the thug snarled, lunging forward with terrifying speed.

He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to strip my locker, tear apart my apartment, and make sure I couldn't testify or lead anyone to Grant.

As his massive hand shot out to grab my collar, instinct—born from years of dodging violent, disoriented ER patients—took over. I swept my foot out, kicking hard against the metal base of a rolling supply cart. The heavy cart slammed directly into his shins.

He roared in pain, stumbling forward. It was the only window I would get.

I ducked under his flailing arm, bolted past him, and slammed my body weight against the heavy steel door. It flew open. I sprinted down the dimly lit hospital corridor, the heavy thud of his boots echoing viciously behind me.

Turn left. Down the stairwell. Run.

I hit the heavy fire exit door, tumbling down three flights of concrete stairs before bursting out into the freezing Chicago alleyway behind the hospital. The wind whipped snow into my face, but I didn't stop. I threw myself behind a row of large commercial dumpsters, gasping for air, pressing my hands over my mouth to quiet the loud, ragged sound of my breathing.

Footsteps crunched on the icy pavement.

“I know you’re out here, nurse!” a voice sneered from the mouth of the alley. “You can’t run from the badge!”

My trembling fingers reached into the deep pocket of my winter coat. My thumb brushed against my phone.

I didn't call 911.

Because the police had sold me out.

Instead, I pulled my phone out, unlocked it with a shaking thumb, and navigated to the contact I had secretly saved two nights ago—the single phone number printed on that cream-colored card.

I pressed call.

It rang once. Twice.