Disgrace

Chapter 19: Back to the Chaos

Katrina

Returning to the ER was like walking straight into a storm—loud, chaotic, and completely indifferent to my condition.

I had barely been back for a few hours, and already, the weight of responsibility pressed against my spine, the familiar rhythm of organized disaster keeping my hands busy and my mind occupied.

I needed the distraction.

Because even though my body was still sore, my legs still stiff, and my mobility slightly compromised, it wasn't the physical discomfort that had me feeling restless.

It was him.

Mason had been gone for two days. Technically, not gone-gone—he was still around, still in school, still existing—but he hadn't been in my space. Not in my hospital room. Not touching me. Not invading every corner of my mind the way he had so effortlessly done before.

It should have been a relief.

But it wasn't.

His absence was an itch under my skin, an unspoken weight in my chest that I refused to acknowledge.

And then there was Jack.

Jack, who was everywhere. Jack, who was constant. Jack, who didn't make my brain short-circuit or my body betray me in ways I couldn't control. Jack, who fit perfectly into the equation of my life, the way things should be.

Logical. Sensible. A man with a purpose, a plan, a future as sharp as his scalpel.

Jack, who didn't make me feel like I was spiraling.

Jack, who wasn't Mason.

I sighed sharply, shaking my head and refocusing on my chart just as the ER doors swung open.

The paramedics rushed in, a stretcher rolling forward, the wheels clicking against the tiles in rapid succession. The patient—female, young, visibly distressed—was clutching her temple, her face twisted in an expression that was more mortification than pain.

Nurse Tanya was already moving beside me as I approached, her expression neutral but her presence firm, steady. She handed me the patient's chart.

"Nineteen-year-old female, found unconscious in her dorm bathroom. Responsive now, no signs of major trauma beyond the bruise on her temple. Uncertain cause of collapse."

I nodded, shifting my attention to the girl in front of me.

Her dark hair was damp, sticking slightly to her forehead. Her skin was flushed, not from fever but something else—embarrassment, maybe. Her fingers gripped the hospital blanket pulled over her lap, knuckles white.

I softened my tone, stepping beside her bed. "Hi, I'm Dr. Isobel. Can you tell me what happened?"

She hesitated.

Her lips parted like she was about to speak, then snapped shut again.

A slow, deep inhale.

"...I don't know," she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

I frowned. "You don't remember passing out?"

She shook her head a little too quickly, flinching when the movement aggravated her injury.

"Okay, let's take this one step at a time," I said, keeping my voice calm. "What were you doing before you collapsed?"

The girl exhaled, shifting uncomfortably.

Her face turned an even deeper shade of red.

I exchanged a glance with Tanya, who remained completely unfazed, then turned back to the patient.