The medic, whose name turned out to be Sergeant Caleb Rourke, approached her with the tentative respect of someone stepping onto holy ground. “You said the stand-down phrase,” he murmured. “How do you know that?”
Elena lifted her hand without thinking, the wedding band catching the harsh light. “My husband trained K-9 teams,” she replied, voice steady by sheer force of will. Caleb stared at the ring as if it might blink.
“Captain Alvarez?” he asked, and when she nodded, the medic sat down hard on an overturned crate, because in the operating room beyond those doors lay a man whose survival story began with Mateo Alvarez throwing him over his shoulder and sprinting through a kill zone.
The hours that followed stretched and folded in ways only hospitals understand, time measured in blood transfusions and surgical clamps rather than in minutes. Titan unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of his chest.
When at last the surgeon emerged, mask hanging loose around his neck, eyes rimmed red from focus and fatigue, he said what they had all been bracing for and hoping against: “He’s critical, but he’s still with us.”
It was not a promise, not yet, but it was a foothold, and Titan stood immediately, nails clicking on tile, ears forward, as if he understood tone if not words. “Can the dog see him?” Caleb asked.
After a hesitation that felt more bureaucratic than medical, the surgeon nodded once. In recovery, Adrian lay swaddled in bandages and lines, oxygen hissing softly, skin the pale of someone who has danced too close to the edge.
When his eyes fluttered open they moved first to the shape at the foot of the bed, recognition cutting through anesthesia like a flare. “You stayed,” he rasped, and Titan pressed his muzzle into the soft hospital blanket, eyes never leaving Adrian’s face.
