“My… my baby…” she whispers, her eyes filling with a primal, desperate fear. Her fingers twitch, reaching for you, for anyone who can promise her a miracle.

You nod quickly, forcing your voice steady. “The baby’s in good hands. We need to get blood into you—right now. Just keep breathing. Please.” Her gaze turns glassy, drifting as blood loss pulls her away from the room, from you.

Just before her eyes slip shut, she manages to focus on you, lips trembling. “I… I trust you. Please… save my baby girl.” Her words are a plea threaded with fading hope, a mother's final prayer to a stranger.

In an instant, her eyes flutter closed. The monitor erupts into a shrill, unrelenting scream. 

Time fractures. 

Every heartbeat is a countdown.

“Her BP's bottoming out!” a nurse yells, her voice ragged with panic as the room explodes into frantic motion. Gloves snap, trays clatter. You barely recognize your own hands as you move.

“Heart rate’s dropping—thirty! She’s in PEA!” another voice calls out, the numbers on the monitor tumbling toward zero. Every second is slipping away.

You swallow down the bile burning at the back of your throat, forcing yourself to focus, to move. The world narrows to blood, breath, and the desperate hope of another chance.

“Shit. It’s a rupture—open the tray! Scalpel!” you bark, voice ragged and raw. You shove the gurney rail down, half-crawling onto the bed to get closer. The scalpel lands in your palm, slick with sweat. You slash through the gown, skip the prep—there’s no time. “Incision starting!” The blade bites a jagged line from sternum to pubis. 

In a rush, you slash through the skin, fat, and tissue in two heavy strokes, and the moment the blade nicked the peritoneum, the pressure gave way. 

A geyser of blood erupts—dark, hot, and endless—soaking through your gown, burning against your skin. It splatters across the table, drowning the instruments, painting everything red.

It wasn’t a slow leak.

It was an unrelenting flood.

A force of nature, wild and unstoppable. 

Within seconds, your world is a lake of red. 

Everything you know about medicine feels useless against this tide.

You work blind, hands submerged past your wrists in warmth that shouldn’t be outside a body. The scalpel drags uselessly, slipping in the blood. “Suction! I can’t see the uterus!” Your voice cracks as you beg for more than the room can give.

You plunge your hands into the chasm you’ve made, fingers searching for the torn edges of muscle. Blood pours over her hips, splashing onto your shoes in thick, sticky ribbons. “Uterus is shredded—won’t contract! Methergine, now! Inject straight in—anything, please!” Nurses close in, faces set in grim determination, hands trembling as they try to help.

“Careful, the floor’s a river,” a scrub nurse warns, her voice tight. 

You hardly hear her.

You’re fighting for a life and losing.

“Fuck the floor! I’m losing my angle—there’s blood in my shoes. Just keep the suction clear!” you shout, desperate. You fumble for the aorta, hands slipping, heart pounding out a frantic rhythm.

“She’s in V-fib! Starting compressions!” someone shouts. You see gloved fists pump rhythmically inside her open chest. The room pulses with a collective heartbeat that feels borrowed.

“Don’t stop! I’ve almost got the clamp—just hold on, one more minute!” Your voice cracks, desperation bleeding through every word. You’re begging for time you don’t have.

“Twenty units of blood, ten of plasma—it’s pouring out as fast as we get it in. She’s cold, Abbot. She’s gone.” The anesthesiologist’s voice is low, almost apologetic. 

You can’t look at him. 

You refuse to give up. 

Not yet.

“I can fix this—just need her to stay with me a little longer. Clamp! Now!” You meet the eyes of your team—pity, resignation, something worse. You shake your head, refusing. “Come on, momma. Stay with me. Please.” Your hands move, but you can feel her slipping further away with every heartbeat.

The monitor flatlines, the sound deafening. 

You freeze, hands buried in a life that’s already gone. A sigh escapes you, heavy with the weight of her loss.

The silence is complete—a soundless scream. 

Finally, the anesthesiologist’s voice breaks through, hollow. “Time of death: 18:15.”

You look up, voice shaking. “The baby. We… we delivered her. She was here.” The words hang in the air, fragile and already fading.

The door creaks open and the pediatrician enters, her eyes widening as she takes in the carnage. “We couldn’t get the baby’s heart back. She was down too long. I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracks, and the room feels colder.

You lower your gaze, eyes burning, and finally slip your hands from her body—blood up to your elbows, sticky and cold. “Can someone tell her husband?” you murmur.

It’s not a question, just a surrender.

You know you should be the one to tell him. But right now, your courage is spent.

You can’t face the man whose life you’ve just broken. 

You can’t bear to see what you’ve become in his grief.

Their blood is on your hands—literal and unforgiving. 

The guilt spreads, hot and uncontainable.

“Yeah. I’ll do it,” the other doctor says softly. You step away, your feet sliding in blood that already feels cold.

“Dr. Abbot, are you okay?” a nurse asks, voice gentle. You know she’s just being polite. You know you look anything but okay.

You don’t answer. 

You just walk out, every step heavier than the last, and push through the door. 

The woman’s husband is waiting—his eyes searching, desperate.

His face crumples in horror as you appear, bloodstained and broken. “Is that… is that my wife’s blood?” His words tremble, clinging to hope that’s already lost.

You look up at him, tears burning your eyes. “I’m so sorry.” The words barely make it out. “They didn't make it.”

He staggers back, sucking in a ragged breath. “You took her from me. You… you took everything from me.”

The words hit you like a bullet. “I… I tried. I tried everything. She was losing too much blood.” Your voice splinters. 

He shakes his head, lips trembling with rage. “You killed her. This is your fault.” The hallway spins, his grief a blade you can’t dodge.

You choke on his words, forcing yourself past him—anything to keep from crumbling in front of a man who has just lost his life.

Your heart hammers, breath shallow, as you stagger into the ED. He follows, his voice a roar you can barely hear over the rush of blood in your ears. 

You’re drowning, and no one even sees.

Langdon and Dana snap their heads up at the commotion. “Jesus…” Langdon mutters, seeing you—soaked in red, being haunted by a shadow that is a man fueled by grief and rage.

Jack’s head jerks around from talking to Robby, and they both look at the scene playing out in front of them. 

Jack doesn’t hesitate. 

He barrels toward the man, planting both hands firmly on his chest. “Back away from my wife. Now. Or I’ll throw you out myself.” His voice is thunder—protective, unyielding.

It’s unprofessional, but Jack doesn’t care. 

No one talks to his wife like that—not today, not ever.

Robby rushes over, pulling Jack back. “Whoa, hey. Let’s all calm down. What happened?” His voice is steady, but his eyes are wide, taking in the aftermath.

“That doctor killed my wife and my baby—she took them from me!” the man shouts, voice cracking. You keep walking, desperate for air, desperate for escape.

Jack watches you tear off your blood-soaked gown, mask, and hospital badge, tossing them in the trash as you stumble out the doors. 

He shakes his head, glaring at the man. “Be glad I’m working,” he mutters, before hurrying after you. He fishes your badge from the trash, jaw tight with worry.

He finds you huddled on the concrete just around the corner, knees hugged to your chest. He exhales, the sound heavy, before sitting down beside you—close but not touching, not yet.

“You okay?” Jack asks softly, knowing you’re not, but needing to ask, needing to reach you through the darkness.

You shake your head, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on your blood-soaked shoes. The metallic tang of fear and failure lingers in your mouth. “She… she trusted me, Jack. I killed her and her baby.” The words crack as they leave you, barely more than a whisper.

Jack’s heart breaks seeing you unravel, but he knows nothing he says can reach the place where your guilt lives. He keeps his voice low, steady. “It wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.”

“Her husband… he was so angry,” you mumble, your jaw aching from biting down on the inside of your cheek. “I can still hear him. He hates me. I don’t blame him.”

He nods, staring at the brick wall across the street, jaw clenched. Then he turns, voice gentle but firm. “Hey. Look at me.”

You hesitate, fighting the urge to disappear. Finally, you drag your eyes up to meet him, searching for something—relief, forgiveness, anything.

He sees the tears tracking down your cheeks and his face crumples. “Come here,” he says softly, opening his arms. It’s not just comfort—he’s anchoring you to the world.

“I’m covered in blood,” you protest, voice hollow. He just shakes his head, eyes shining with worry, and you can’t resist anymore.

You scoot closer, collapsing into his embrace. His arms are strong, steady—your head finds his shoulder, and for a moment, you let yourself be held. Your body shakes with silent sobs.

“I can’t hate him,” you whisper. “He lost everything. I’d be angry too.”

“Anger’s one thing. But he shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” Jack murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. “You didn’t deserve any of that.” His voice is all warmth and ache.

You choke out a sob. “I don’t want to be here anymore, Jack. I… I can’t do this. Not after today.”

“No one’s making you stay, sweetheart,” he whispers. “But you’re meant for this. The world needs doctors like you, even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.”

“Would you be mad at the doctor? Would you be mad for the rest of your life?” 

His voice drops, trembling with an edge you’ve never heard before. “That wouldn’t happen,” he says softly, but there’s a desperate finality to it, like he’s fighting back the image.

You swallow, voice barely audible. “What wouldn’t?”

He meets your eyes, and for a moment, you see fear flicker in his. “If you died…” He pauses, breath hitching. “I wouldn’t know how to go on. I’d be lost right there with you.” His words are raw, honest—a confession pulled straight from the ache in his chest.

You watch him in silence, the weight of everything that’s happened hanging between you. Your breaths are ragged, the distant wail of a siren rising and falling in the background. You don’t trust your voice, so you just let your head sink onto his shoulder, drawing comfort from his steady presence.

You stay there, pressed against him, your bodies unmoving as the world keeps spinning. The minutes crawl by, thick and heavy, until finally you lift your head. Jack’s hand fumbles in his pocket—he’s clumsy, hesitant, like he doesn’t want to break the fragile calm.

He holds out your plastic hospital badge, his hand trembling just a little. “I… uh… got this back for you,” he says softly. His eyes flicker away, almost shy. “Figured you’d want it for your memory box.”

A weak smile tugs at your lips as you take the badge, your fingers brushing his. “You really dug through the trash for this?” The words come out watery, but there’s gratitude in your voice.

He grins, and for a moment the heaviness lifts. “Wasn’t so bad,” he shrugs, watching you turn the badge over in your hand. “I did, uh, accidentally grab Shen’s overnight oats.” The memory makes you both smile—just for a second, you remember how to laugh.

“Gross,” you laugh out.

“It had all that health crap in it—some weird powder.” He’s watching you, soaking in the sound of your laughter like it’s the first sunlight after a storm.

You playfully hit his arm, laughing. “You’re disgusting.”

He watches you, a quiet warmth spreading through his chest as he sees a glimpse of the woman he loves peeking through the pain.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he murmurs, the words gentle—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he speaks too loud.

You roll your eyes, but can’t quite hide the flush on your cheeks. Even now, after everything, he can make you feel safe.

Reality crashes back in, your smile fading as your shoulders sag. “I feel so weak,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper. It hurts to admit it.

“Hey, hey,” he says, cupping your face gently. “You’re my tough girl.”

“I don’t feel so tough,” you admit, your eyes brimming again. “I just… walked away,”

He shakes his head, thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. “You did what you had to do. You were protecting yourself. Anyone in your position would have done the same.”

You try to lighten the mood, voice wobbling. “You know, you’re pretty empathetic for such an old man.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Who you callin’ old?” The sound of your shared laughter fills the empty night, a small thread tying you back together.

You shift uncomfortably on the cold concrete. “Thanks for coming out here. I know the hospital needs you.” Gratitude, guilt, and relief swirl in your voice.

He gives you a look—half-teasing, half-sincere. “Kind of offended you’re thanking me. You’re my wife. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Jack squeezes your hand, grounding you. 

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. 

The sirens fade. 

The night air is cold but somehow less empty.

“We’ll get through this,” he whispers.

You don’t know if you believe him. 

But for now, you let yourself lean into the warmth of his shoulder, and, for the first time tonight, you let yourself breathe.