Page 23 of Wings
The intercom crackled. Long seconds of nothing, then her voice, thin and fractured: "Yes?"
"Ki? It's Gabe. Please. I'm here to check you're okay."
Silence stretched between us, broken only by static and the sound of traffic outside. I pressed my forehead against the coldmetal of the entry panel, prosthetic aching from the stairs I'd have to climb.
"Ki, I know you don't want to see me, but Doc told me about the hospital. I just need to know—"
The door buzzed. No words, just that harsh electronic sound of admission. I grabbed the handle before she could change her mind.
The lobby smelled like industrial cleaner and fear-sweat. Security cameras tracked my movement across worn linoleum. Everything about this place screamed transient, temporary, ready to run. I took the stairs, each step echoing in the narrow stairwell.
Fourth floor. Her hallway stretched empty, more cameras at each end. I found 4B and knocked, the sound too loud in the silence.
Locks disengaged—deadbolt, chain, something heavier that scraped metal on metal. The door opened six inches, stopped by a security chain that looked strong enough to stop a battering ram. Through the gap, I saw her face and forgot how to breathe.
She looked wrecked. Eyes swollen and red-rimmed, cheeks blotchy from crying, hair hanging limp around her face. The composed nurse from this morning was gone, replaced by someone hanging on by fingernails and spite.
"How did you—what are you doing here?" Her voice cracked on the last word.
"Doc told me about the hospital. I just . . ." I spread my hands, helpless. "I needed to know you were okay."
A sound escaped her, half laugh, half sob. "I'm not okay. They know I'm stealing drugs. They're investigating. I could lose my license, go to jail, and there’s more, Gabe I’m so scared, I can't—"
Her breathing went shallow, rapid. I recognized the signs—had seen them in too many soldiers, felt them in my own chest during the bad nights. Panic attack, incoming fast.
"Ki, let me in. Please. Just to help you breathe."
She stared at me through the gap, chest heaving. For a moment, I thought she'd slam the door. Then the chain dropped with a metallic rattle. She backed away as I entered, arms wrapped around herself like armor.
The apartment felt almost barren. White walls, beige carpet, furniture that looked like it came from a hospital waiting room. No photos, no personality, no signs of life beyond basic survival. Even forward operating bases had more character. This wasn't a home—it was a safe house, built for leaving fast.
Multiple locks on the door—I counted four different mechanisms as I closed it behind me. Security bar leaning in the corner. Windows with blackout curtains drawn tight. Everything positioned for maximum defense, minimum vulnerability.
"There's something—" She moved toward the kitchen counter, movements jerky and uncoordinated. "It came while I was—someone left it outside my door."
A box sat on the white countertop. Plain brown cardboard, her name written in black marker. My gut clenched—I recognized that handwriting. Alex's. The same scrawl from birthday cards and grocery lists back when we all pretended to be a family.
"Don't—" I started, but she was already opening it.
Inside, nestled in white tissue paper like some sick parody of a gift, lay a teddy bear. Brown fur, one of those classic bears with the bow tie. But its head had been severed, cotton stuffing spilling out, dyed red like blood. A folded note was pinned to its chest.
Kiara's hands shook as she unfolded it. I read over her shoulder, Alex's words making my jaw clench:
Baby girl,
Heard you've been playing nurse for the wrong team. The Serpents don't like that. Stop the medical runs or the next cut won't be on a toy.
Miss you.A
The paper fluttered from her fingers. She stared at the decapitated bear, and I watched her face cycle through emotions—shock, fear, then something worse. Recognition.
"This was—" Her voice came out strangled. "Mr. Butterscotch. My childhood bear. I thought I lost him when I moved but he—Alex kept it? All this time?"
Her breathing went from bad to worse, great gulping gasps that weren't pulling in enough air. The panic attack hit full force, and she clutched at her chest like she could manually make her lungs work.
"Can't breathe," she gasped, hands clutching at her chest. "Too much. It's too much."
"Here." I moved slow, telegraphing every motion. No sudden movements, nothing that might spook her worse. I swept the box and its contents into the trash, getting it out of sight. "Let's sit. Just for a minute."
