Aline Wilson bursts through the sliding doors of Greenwood City Hospital like a storm that has lost its sky.
The fluorescent lobby stings her eyes, too bright, too clean. She skids on freshly mopped linoleum and collides with a junior doctor carrying a stack of charts. Papers fan across the floor like wounded birds.
"I'm— I'm sorry, wher-where is Trauma OR" she gasps, already kneeling to gather them.
The man waves her off. "Don't worry. Trauma OR is straight ahead—red light above the door."
Red light. The color of alarms, of fresh blood.
Aline sprints, dodging gurneys and nurses. Her heart bangs against her ribs so hard it feels like it wants to claw free and reach the operating theater first.
At the end of the corridor she finds it: OPERATING IN PROGRESS glowing crimson. Behind a square window no wider than her hand, she catches a glimpse of blue-green scrubs swirling around a small, still figure. Amy. Tubes sprout from her sister's body, beep-beep-beeping in frantic Morse code Aline cannot decipher.
Her breath caves in on itself. The glass fogs where her forehead rests.
Three Months Earlier – First Day of College
Sunlight spills through the kitchen window, turning dust motes into lazy dancers. Amy hums as she flips a pancake, wearing the brand-new university hoodie that still smells of factory plastic.
Aline sets two plates on the table, eyes soft. "Easy on the syrup, nerd. You'll crash before orientation's over."
"It's college!" Amy drizzles twice as much as normal out of pure, fizzy rebellion. "Besides, Aria promised to treat me to lunch on campus. She's showing me where the Blackstone cousins hang out, apparently."
Aline arches a brow. "Rich people magnets, those cafés. Stay polite, keep your guard up, and don't let the glamor fool you, okay? Not everyone born with a platinum spoon understands consequences."
Amy giggles, cheeks puffing. "Don't worry, Mum-Mode. Aria's sweet, and it's just coffee. I'll text you the whole time."
"You'd better. Drink water, watch your bag, call me if any cousin looks at you crooked." Aline ruffles her hair, unable to resist the protective itch. Amy swats her hand but hugs her from behind, syrup-sticky fingers and all.
"You fret too much," she murmurs. "But I love you for it."
A sob punches Aline back to the present. Love. Protection. She presses both palms against the window as if sheer will might knit her sister's broken bones.
A gentle hand closes over her shoulder. Aria Blackstone, eyes swollen, stands beside her.
"Aline, I'm so, so sorry." Aria's voice barely escapes her throat. "I never thought—"
"Tell me everything," Aline whispers.
Aria nods, and the corridor melts away.
Music drifts from the grand piano room as Aria heads upstairs, trailing Amy's laughter. On the balcony outside the second-floor lounge, Alex's girlfriend, Sasha, waves a glittering bracelet.
"It's missing," Sasha hisses. "You were the only outsider near my room."
Amy's smile falters. "I never even went inside."
Alex, tall and impatient in a crisp blue shirt, folds his arms. "Just empty your pockets so we can settle this."
"There's nothing to settle," Amy says, chin lifting.
Sasha's eyes harden. "Thief."
Alex steps forward, exasperation sharpening into anger. He grabs Amy's wrist—too rough, too sudden. Amy jerks back, heel catching on the slick marble.
Time fractures: Aria sees Alex's hand shoot out to steady Amy, sees panic flare in his eyes—too late. The balcony rail slams into Amy's hips. She teeters, arms flailing, then falls.
A scream tunnels out of Aria's chest. She races to the rail. Two stories below, Amy lies crumpled, a scarlet halo pooling around her dark hair. Alex blanches, drops to his knees, then bolts for the stairs.
Aria follows on legs of vapor. By the time she reaches the courtyard, Alex is already cradling Amy, shirt soaking crimson. "Call an ambulance!" he barks. Guilt carves his features raw.
Drivers rush, gardeners stare; sirens wail into the afternoon air.
The memory shakes loose like glass beads.
In the hallway, Aria's shoulders quake. "He… he didn't mean—"
"Intent doesn't matter," Aline mutters. "Result does."
The red light above the door still burns. Through it Aline watches latex-gloved hands pump Amy's chest once, twice, again.
Footsteps echo. A figure appears at the corridor's far end, shirt stiff with dried blood, sleeves rolled haphazardly above shaking forearms. Alex Black.
He looks disoriented in the too-bright hospital lighting. His gaze darts to the theater door, then to the two women. He doesn't recognize Aline—or maybe he does but can't accept who she must be.
He takes a step; Aline steps right into his path.
"Don't," she says. One word, brittle.
Alex's eyes flicker to Aria for context; Aria's silence is confirmation enough.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, voice hoarse from shouting earlier. "I—I never wanted—"
Her palm connects with his cheek, explosive. Nurses at the desk glance up, startled.
"You pushed her," Aline hisses. "Say that out loud. You pushed her."
His throat works. "It was… I lost balance, I—"
"Save it for the police." She lifts a trembling finger toward the theater window. "That's my sister dying because you couldn't control your temper."
Something inside Alex seems to cave. He turns, pressing both blood-smeared hands to the wall as if it can hold him up.
Aline's pulse finally slows enough for her to register the world again: the astringent bite of disinfectant, the muted pages over the PA, the nurse passing with a tray of gauze and adrenaline vials who offers a sympathetic smile.
Minutes drag. Each one is a lifetime.
The theater doors jerk open. A surgeon steps out, mask hanging loose. He spots the knot of family, gestures to a nearby alcove meant for bad news.
Aria clutches Aline's hand; even Alex wavers forward, dread in every line of his posture.
"Miss Wilson?" the surgeon asks. Aline's nod is a ghost.
"Your sister sustained a severe cranial fracture and internal bleeding. We've controlled the hemorrhage for now, but her condition is critical. The next twenty-four hours are decisive."
Twenty-four hours. Entire universes could form and collapse in that span.
"Can I see her?" Aline asks.
"Briefly. She'll be moved to ICU in ten minutes."
The surgeon returns inside. The red light wink —off.
Aria exhales, half sob, half prayer.
Aline redirects the full weight of her grief-forged fury at him, but before she can speak a nurse waves her to scrub in.
Without looking back, she follows the nurse through swinging doors, shoulders squared, jaw set. The moment she crosses the threshold, every emotion folds inward, armor for what she's about to face.
Alex remains in the corridor, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the closing door—watching the thin line between regret and repentance, wondering which side he'll stand on when it opens again.