Chapter 162 BLEEDING CLOCK
Dual POV — Zuri & Amani
ZURI — POV
The clock on the wall is wrong.
It ticks too loud. Too slow. Each second lands like a dropped plate, shattering something fragile inside me. I count them without meaning to—one, two, three, until Ghost reaches over and stills my knee with a firm hand.
“Breathe,” he says quietly.
I try.
The air won’t go where it’s supposed to.
Across from us, a digital board lists operating rooms and statuses in cold blue text. TRAUMA OR 3 — IN PROGRESS. The words don’t change. They don’t care. They don’t tell me anything I need to know.
I stand. Sit. Stand again.
My hands smell like antiseptic now instead of blood, and somehow that’s worse. Blood meant I was doing something. Blood meant I could fix it.
Now there’s only waiting.
A door opens down the hall and a surgeon strides out, gloves snapping off, face tight. My heart lurches. I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved.
He doesn’t look at me. He turns the other way.
I sag back into the chair.
Ghost exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. “They’ll tell us if there’s news.”
“If there’s bad news,” I correct.
He doesn’t argue.
Minutes bleed into each other. The clock keeps killing time. I imagine it dripping out of Amani, drop by drop, somewhere behind those doors.
My phone vibrates in my pocket—messages lighting up from people who heard, who are watching feeds, who know the compound fell and someone important didn’t walk away. I don’t look. I can’t carry anyone else’s fear right now.
Another nurse approaches, different from before. Older. Calm in the way people get when they’ve lived in this hallway long enough to know panic doesn’t help.
“Ms. Zuri?” she asks gently.
I nod.
She crouches so we’re eye level. “They’ve reached a critical point in the operation. There’s significant internal bleeding. They’re working to control it.”
Critical.
The word lands like a verdict.
“Is he—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “Is he dying?”
She doesn’t flinch. “He’s very sick. But he’s still with us.”
Still with us.
Ghost’s hand finds mine. I squeeze back too hard, nails biting skin.
“How long?” I ask.
She hesitates. “As long as it takes.”
When she leaves, something inside me finally slips.
I fold forward, elbows on knees, face in my hands, and the sound that comes out of me is ugly. Broken. A sob I can’t swallow back this time.
Ghost moves instantly, kneeling in front of me, blocking the hall from view. “Hey. Hey—look at me.”
I can’t.
“He’s going to die,” I choke. “I can feel it. I brought him here just to watch him—”
“Stop.” His voice is sharp now, command threaded through concern. “Don’t you do that to yourself. Don’t you bury him while he’s still fighting.”
“I’m so tired,” I whisper. “I don’t know how to do this part. I know how to fight. I know how to bleed. I don’t know how to wait.”
Ghost softens. He presses his forehead briefly to mine, grounding, steady. “Then you don’t wait alone.”
I breathe against him, ragged.
The clock keeps ticking.
AMANI — POV
Pressure.
Hands.
Voices closer now—no longer echoes, but sharp, immediate.
“Clamp—now—”
“Suction—can’t see—”
“BP’s dropping—again—”
Pain flashes white, then recedes. I’m aware of my body in fragments: heat in my chest, cold along my side, a deep pulling ache that makes me want to curl inward.
I try to.
Something holds me flat.
I drift up, then slam back down as if pulled by a line tied around my ribs.
Zuri’s voice flickers at the edge of everything, faint, but there.
I’m here.
I hold onto it.
“Another unit, get it in him.”
“He’s not clotting, what the hell.”
“Stay with me, Amani. Stay with me.”
Someone says my name like a challenge.
I want to answer.
My mouth won’t move.
The darkness presses close again, heavier this time, seductive. It promises quiet. An end to the tearing, the burning, the endless pull.
I lean toward it.
And the line snaps tight.
Zuri.
Her fear cuts through the dark like a blade. Not words, feeling. Raw. And desperate.
I push back.
My heart stutters, then pounds hard enough to hurt.
“Got a rhythm—don’t lose it—”
“Bleeder’s here—hold—HOLD—”
Light flares behind my eyes.
Pain surges, savage and real.
I welcome it.
Pain means I’m still here.
ZURI — POV
The surgeon comes out running.
Not walking. Not composed.
Running.
I’m on my feet, heart in my throat. Ghost stands with me, a wall at my back.
The surgeon stops short when he sees us. His mask is streaked with sweat, eyes sharp with urgency.
“We’ve got uncontrolled bleeding from a compromised vessel,” he says fast. “We’re attempting a repair, but if we don’t stabilize him in the next few minutes—”
He doesn’t finish.
My vision tunnels. The room tilts.
Ghost steps in. “What do you need?”
The surgeon looks at me, really looks—and something shifts. “We need him to keep fighting. His vitals are responding, but he’s on the edge. If he arrests again—”
“I’ll talk to him,” I say immediately.
The surgeon hesitates, then nods. “We can’t bring you into the sterile field, but—” He gestures to a phone in his hand. “Audio only. Sometimes it helps.”
Sometimes.
That’s enough.
I grab the phone with shaking hands. The line clicks open. I can hear the OR now—machines, commands, the wet sound of suction.
My knees nearly buckle.
“Amani,” I whisper into the phone, voice breaking open. “Hey. It’s me.”
I press the phone to my mouth, like I can pour myself through it.
“You don’t get to stop now,” I tell him, fierce through tears. “You don’t get to leave me with all this unfinished. You promised me halfway. I’m here. I’m still here.”
The clock ticks.
The surgeon watches the phone like it’s a lifeline.
“I need you to fight,” I whisper. “Just a little longer. I’ll do the rest. I swear.”
For a heartbeat, nothing happens.
Then the surgeon’s eyes snap to a monitor I can’t see.
“Pressure’s coming up,” he murmurs. “Hold—hold—”
My breath catches.
“Stay,” I plead softly. “Stay with me.”
The surgeon exhales, something like awe crossing his face. “We’ve got temporary control. Taking him back on bypass. Don’t stop talking.”
I don’t.
I won’t.
The clock keeps bleeding time.
But for the first time since the doors closed—
It feels like Amani is bleeding less.