Harborview ER was a fortress of glass and fluorescent light.
I watched from the parking garage across the street.
Two entrances.
One loading dock.
Security cameras at every corner.
Rhea worked nights.
She’d be here until 7 a.m.
I had four hours.
I spent them planning.
At 3 a.m., I triggered a fire alarm three blocks east.
Sirens wailed.
Traffic shifted.
Security attention drifted.
I slipped in through the loading dock, badge cloned from a janitor’s pocket ten minutes earlier.
ER was chaos.
Gurneys.
Shouting.
A patient convulsing in the corner, foam at his mouth.
Rhea was at Station 3, charting.
I walked up and set the drive on the counter.
She looked up.
“You’re the guy with the bike crash.”
“Rhea.” She glanced at the drive.
“That’s not a medical record.”
“It’s a death list.” I tapped the screen.
“Your name’s on it.”
She went still.
“AVG?”
“They’re coming for you.”
She laughed, but it was hollow.
“They’re coming for everyone.”
“Not everyone.” I showed her the file.
“Assets get extracted.
Overhead gets left.”
She read it.
Her face hardened.
“What do you want?”
“Help,” I said.
“And a favor.”
“What favor?”
“When the time comes, you’ll know.”
She studied me.
“I’m in.”
A nurse shouted from the corner.
The convulsing patient had stopped moving.
Then he sat up.
Eyes black.
Teeth wrong.
Rhea grabbed a syringe.
“Stay back.”
He lunged.
I fired once.
He dropped.
Silence fell.
Rhea looked at me.
“How did you know?”
“I’ve seen it before.”
She didn’t ask again.
She just grabbed her bag.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Before they send more.”
We left through the staff exit.
Behind us, the alarms started.