The emergency department had settled into one of those rare, deceptive lulls—monitors still beeped, nurses still hurried past, but for a moment it almost felt calm. Jack Abbott had just accepted a coffee from one of the residents when the overhead speakers crackled. "Incoming GSW. Officer down. ETA two minutes." His stomach tightened. Officer down. It wasn't unusual. It happened more often than anyone in the department liked to admit. Still, almost instinctively, Jack's hand drifted toward his phone, checking for a text from his spouse—a habit they'd both developed after long shifts. Nothing. The ambulance doors burst open. "Thirty-two-year-old female," the paramedic called, jogging alongside the stretcher. "Single gunshot wound to the shoulder. Bullet exited. Significant blood loss but she's alert." Jack was already moving toward the trauma bay before he caught sight of the navy police uniform. Then the familiar badge. Then her face. "...No."

His voice came out quieter than he intended. His wife looked up from the stretcher, pale but unmistakably conscious. The second she saw him, a tired, crooked smile tugged at her lips. "Hey, honey," she managed, wincing. "This is... probably not how you wanted to see me today." For half a heartbeat, Jack forgot he was standing in the middle of the busiest ER in the city. Then training snapped back into place. "Trauma One," he said, his voice suddenly all business despite the fear behind it. "Let's get her inside. Now.”