The room is dim, lit only by the monitors and soft glow from the hallway. Sharon lies in bed — weak, eyes half-lidded, heart monitor steady but soft. The door eases open without a sound. A man in scrubs slips inside. Masked. Gloved. The name tag reads "M. Duran," but the badge is slightly off-center. He moves with rehearsed ease, approaching the IV pole, checking the monitors. Sharon opens her eyes, "You're… not my nurse."

He offers no reply — just a half-nod as he pulls a small, unmarked syringe from his pocket. "You're going to feel better soon, Commander."

He lifts the IV port in one hand — lines it up with the needle. SHARON'S EYES SNAP WIDER. With trembling hands, she grabs at the IV — and yanks it free just as the needle touches the port. "No…!" she manages a breathless cry.

The needle slips — the man curses, lunges for her. Sharon tries to pull away but her strength fails. He grabs her by the shoulders and strikes her hard across the face — once, twice — enough to daze her, nearly knocking her off the bed. MONITORS SPIKE. A tray crashes to the ground. Down the hall, Julio hears it — the sudden, sharp crash. The thud. The beeping. He sprints. The man is on top of Sharon, one gloved hand grabbing her throat, trying to force her still. Her hands claw at his arms, blood from the ripped IV line smearing across her gown.

Julio bursts through the door at top speed, "Get off her!"

The man turns just in time for Julio to tackle him into the wall, sending the syringe flying. They struggle — Julio driving knee to stomach, forearm to throat — a brutal takedown. Buzz rushes in seconds later, radio already calling security.

"Julio…" her voice is barely audible.

Julio cuffs the attacker with shaking hands, fury radiating from every muscle.

He turns to his Commander, "It's okay. I got you. I got you."

A nurse rushes in, immediately tending to Sharon. Her face is bruised, lip split, her arm bleeding from the IV site. Her breathing is ragged.

"We need a crash team—NOW!" the nurse calls.

Julio can't control the shaking in his voice as he turns to Buzz, "That wasn't just a hit. That was a message. Someone sent him to finish what Bishop started." Buzz nods grimly, already pulling up security footage.

Andy stands beside a blacked-out SUV, the cold biting into his neck. Russo and Smith linger a few paces away, talking in hushed tones. Russo steps aside, raising his phone. Andy pretends to check a panel on the van, but every muscle in his body is tuned in.

Russo's voice is low, "It's done. She won't be waking up." He pauses, listening to the other end, "Yeah… yeah, Davis will owe you for this one. No loose ends. That was the deal."

Andy freezes. His stomach turns. A pulse behind his eyes. He looks up sharply — Russo paces, unaware Andy is listening. "Staples botched his part, but the hospital hit? No one's walking away from that. Raydor's out. That's what matters." He pauses again, chuckling this time, "Yeah, the bitch went down fighting. They always do."

Andy's jaw tightens so hard it aches. Walking around, Andy climbs inside, shuts the door — and loses it. He yanks out the burner phone, speed-dials Julio. VOICEMAIL. He hangs up. Dials Provenza. VOICEMAIL. Andy's voice trembles, "Come on, come on…" He tries Fritz. Nothing. Straight to voicemail.

His hands are shaking. He opens his encrypted line — the one only a few know about — types a single message "SHARON. Is she okay?" He hits send. No reply.

"No. No, not like this. Not when I wasn't there—" He slams his fist into the steering wheel. It's too late to pull the plug. Too late to run. If he blows his cover now, Sharon's sacrifice — everything she fought for — dies with it. But if she's gone— His fingers hover over the ignition. He has to know.

The double doors slam open, busting the lock. Fritz Howard storms in, followed by Provenza, both armed with warrants and fire in their eyes. Two Internal Affairs investigators trail behind them, stone-faced. Davis is behind her desk, composed — but only just. A tablet sits beside her, a document open. Her eyes flick toward it as she stands "You'd better have more than attitude and a badge to barge in here, Chief."

"I've got obstruction, conspiracy, abuse of power, and attempted murder." Fritz spits, "Want me to keep going?"

"Or just skip to your name being at the top of Bishop's loyalty list." Provenza smiles.

Davis doesn't flinch, but her hand creeps toward the tablet. "Don't touch it," Fritz orders.

IA Lieutenant Camacho moves forward and grabs the device, locking the screen.

"That's confidential. Departmental resource allocation—" Davis offers.

"Bullshit," Provenza snaps, "That's a kill list, and your name's on it twice."

Camacho taps through the screen, then stops cold. He turns it so Fritz and Provenza can see.

"Ops: Clean Slate"

names, badge numbers, and color-coded notes. Bishop. Russo. Staples. Jenkins. And more.

"Jesus Christ…, Fritz mutters before reading aloud, "RACR clearance to disable security cams, badge bypasses approved. Surveillance targets: Raydor, Flynn, Tao, Rios…" He looks up, "You were cleaning house."

Davis smiles, "I was correcting an imbalance. This department's been run by pet projects and political favoritism for too long. Sharon Raydor made her entire career out of humiliating fellow officers—"

"She made her career holding the line. You tried to erase it," Provenza snaps.

"Cuff her," Fritz looks to Camacho who steps forward pulling Davis arms behind her back.

"You think this ends with me?" Her voice raises, "This system eats women like her alive. I just lit the match."

"Then prepare to burn," Fritz stares at the lunatic.

Camacho leads Davis towards the door, but she stops turning to Provenza with a smile, "I hope you tell her it was me."

"Oh, she'll know. Right after she wakes up and buries you herself." As Davis is led out, Provenza picks up a printed version of the document. He flips it open. "We've got our ring. We've got the whole damn tree."

Fritz's voice is cold and resolute, "Then let's start chopping."

A concrete shell of a building in east LA. Cold. Quiet. Russo and Smith lean over a table with two burner phones, a laptop, and a blueprint of an upcoming job. Andy stands nearby, hands in his jacket pockets, heart thundering.

"Relax. It's handled," Russo calmly looks at Smith.

Andy snaps. "Is that what you told yourself the last time? When you threw a woman in a warehouse to die?"

Smith looks up, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Flynn?"

Andy steps forward. No longer undercover. No more pretending. Eyes blazing. Voice low. Controlled. "You want to talk about Sharon Raydor? Let's talk. She's stronger than you'll ever be. You tortured her, and she still walked out. You don't get to win. Not today."

Smith reaches for his gun. Andy's faster. BANG. BANG. Smith goes down hard. Russo dives for cover. Andy rolls, comes up firing — one clean shot to the leg. Russo screams, falls, gun skidding across the floor.

Andy advances forward, his voice rising, "That's for the videos. For the bugs. For the bruises I didn't see until it was too late."

Russo's eyes narrrow, "You're dead. You just signed your own—"

Andy levels the gun at his chest, "You don't get to say her name again."

SIRENS WHINE IN THE DISTANCE. Tires screech. Backup closing in. Andy lowers the weapon just enough. Walks over, yanks Russo up by the collar and slams him against the wall. "You came for the strongest woman I've ever known," he growls. "You think this was about money or power? No. This was about pride. About fear. You were afraid of her."

Cops swarm in. Uniforms shout. Russo's pulled away, cuffed. Smith is already being loaded into a unit. Andy steps back, chest heaving, arms trembling. A voice cuts through the noise — Tao's, urgent over comms: "Flynn! Julio got her. She's alive." Andy's knees nearly buckle. "Davis is in custody. We got the list. Sharon's alive! You hear me? She's safe."

Andy lowers his gun. His head drops. The release is full-body. Like he's exhaling months of pain in a single breath. "Thank God," he whispers in a voice not his own.

The room is too bright. The heart monitor beeps a fractured rhythm. An oxygen cannula loops under Sharon's nose, but her breathing is shallow, erratic. Her skin is too pale beneath the soft white light, and her body lies curled slightly to one side, like it's still trying to protect itself.

Her lip is split again — reopened during the struggle. Fresh bruising colors the side of her jaw. There are fresh scrapes across her shoulders, where the IV was torn during the attempted injection. Her right wrist is wrapped tightly, but the blood is already starting to seep through the gauze.

A nurse gently lifts her eyelid with a penlight. The pupil reacts — slow, but responsive. "Come on, Commander… come back to us."

But Sharon doesn't wake. Her face twitches, as if her dream is full of teeth and memory. Her legs jerk once. Then again. "Stop… stop it…" She whimpers.

The nurse frowns. Sharon's heart rate is rising. The nurse presses the comms button, "She's entering a stress response — BP's climbing again. I need Lin. Now."

"Please don't… I said no… I said— I said no!" She thrashes suddenly, arms jolting against the straps loosely tethering her to the bed. The machines wail.

Another nurse rushes in, catching Sharon's shoulder before she tears out another IV. "Commander—Sharon—you're safe now. He's not here. You're safe." But Sharon doesn't hear them.

Andy stands just outside the glass window, frozen as he watches her fight invisible ghosts. Her body jolts, twisting away from hands that aren't there. Her mouth opens in a silent scream. He bangs a fist lightly against the glass. Not to startle anyone. Just to do something, "Let me in. Please—let me in." His voice is hoarse.

"We can't. Not while she's unstable. We've got to sedate her or she's going to tear the stitches in her shoulder," the nurse insists. Inside, Sharon's breathing is fast and shallow, her fingers curled into claws.

"You don't understand," Andy reasons. "She needs to know she's not alone. She needs me."

"If she recognizes your voice, it could trigger a worse spike. Right now, she doesn't know where she is."

Andy turns away from the glass, pacing once, twice — and then he sinks into the nearest chair, his head in his hands.

Through the glass, Sharon's body finally begins to calm, the medication catching in her bloodstream. But her fingers are still trembling — even in unconsciousness.

Fritz steps beside Andy. "She's fighting harder than most would. But even the strongest have a breaking point."

Andy lifts his head, eyes wet but determined. "She didn't break. She survived. And when she wakes up again—" he swallows hard, "—I'm going to be the one she sees."

The room is dim again, the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor steadier now — but every other second still feels too long. Sharon shifts beneath the blankets, a quiet groan slipping from her lips. Her eyelids flutter. She stirs. "Andy…?" she weakly calls.

The nurse seated beside the monitor leans forward. "Commander? You're in the ICU. You're safe."

"Andy" Her words are slurred, "I need Andy… where is he?" She tries to move, her arm jerking instinctively — but pain floods her system. Her body stiffens. She gasps, choking on the surge. Panic floods through her, "No… no… why isn't he here?! I want Andy!"

The monitor spikes. The nurse presses the comms button, "Room 314 — patient agitated, vitals climbing. We need a calming protocol — and someone get her fiancé now."

Sharon claws at the blankets, tears rising in her eyes. Her breathing is rapid, chest heaving. "Why won't he come…? I need him… I need…"

The ICU Nurse from earlier rushes in, "We're trying to reach him—please, Commander—just breathe…"

But it's too much. The trauma, the drugs, the memories. "You're lying," Her voice is near hysteria, "—you're keeping him away! Let him in—LET HIM IN!"

The door bursts open. "Sharon!" he's breathless as he breathes her name.

The staff turns, stunned. "Sir—"

Julio stands firmly in the doorway, "Let him in. She needs him more than the damn machines right now."

Andy crosses the room in two strides. Sharon sees him and just breaks. "Andy—Andy, please"

He's already at her side, cupping her face with both hands.

Tears are running down both their faces, "I'm here. I'm here, sweetheart. Nobody's taking you anywhere. I've got you." Her hand finds the edge of his shirt and doesn't let go. Her sobs quiet, breath still ragged but slowing.

The nurse looks around the room in amazement, "She's stabilizing."

Andy leans in, presses a kiss to her temple, whispering again and again like a vow, "I've got you… I've got you…"

The machines beep softly now, a steadier rhythm than before. The harsh edges of panic have dulled, but the air is still fragile, heavy with the aftermath. Sharon lies back against the pillows, eyes glassy with exhaustion, the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks. Her fingers remain knotted tightly into Andy's shirt — like if she lets go, she'll be gone again. Andy sits beside her, one hand cradling her wrist, the other gently brushing damp strands of hair from her face.

"I thought I was dreaming…" Her voice is barely a whisper, "I thought… you wouldn't come."

Andy swallows hard. His voice shakes despite his effort to hold it steady. "There's not a dream or nightmare in this world that could keep me from you."

Her lip trembles. She tries to smile. It hurts too much. "They wouldn't tell me… I didn't know if you were alive… if you knew…"

He leans forward, resting his forehead to hers — gently, grounding both of them. "I knew. I knew the second I couldn't get you on the phone. The second no one would tell me where you were. I knew… something was wrong. And I swear to God, I ran." They sit like that, forehead to forehead, breathing the same broken air.

"I don't want to sleep." Her eyes flutter closed. "Don't make me go to sleep, I'm afraid of what I'll see."

"Then don't sleep, beautiful. Just stay here. Stay with me. Let me hold you up." He shifts slightly, settling on the edge of the bed. Gently, carefully, he eases his arm beneath her shoulders, cradling her to him as best he can without touching the bruises. She lets herself rest there, cheek pressed to his chest. The beeping slows. The room, for the first time in hours, is still.

The walls are a sterile blue-gray, and the fluorescent lights hum low overhead. Coffee cups sit untouched on the side table. A clock ticks too loudly. Louie Provenza paces. Again. Patrice sits in the corner, her hands folded in her lap, worry etched deep in her face. Julio stands by the window, arms crossed, staring out into nothing. Fritz enters, his coat still draped over one arm. The tension in the room turns toward him like a magnet. "You get anything?" Provenza questions.

Fritz nods with a heavy sigh, "Russo's down. Davis is in custody. The files she kept? We've got names. There's going to be fallout for weeks."

Julio turns from the window. "And the Commander?"

Fritz exhales. Not because he's unsure — but because the weight of all of it hasn't let him breathe. "She made it through another crash. They let Andy in."

Patrice closes her eyes, offering the smallest nod of relief. "Then she's not done fighting."

"Damn right she's not," Provenza's tone is gruff. He stops pacing for the first time all night. Looks at Fritz. "How long before the press gets wind of the rest of this?"

"They already are. But no names yet. If we're smart, we'll keep it that way until Sharon's stable — and ready to decide what the world gets to hear from her first."

Julio grabs a bottle of water from the side table, tossing one to Provenza. "She's going to want to finish this herself."

Fritz nods, "Then we hold the line until she's ready."

The room falls quiet again.

Patrice speaks up — softly, but with firm conviction. "You all keep watching the doors. I'll keep watching the clock."

And they do. Because none of them are ready to go home until she does.

The machines beep in steady rhythm now, a comforting contrast to the chaos of earlier. The light is dim, muted by the drawn curtain. Sharon lies propped up slightly, bruises blooming along her cheekbone, her lower lip still split and tender. Her bandaged wrist rests against the blanket, IV reinserted carefully into the other arm.

Andy sits beside her, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on her face like she might vanish if he looks away. One of her hands is cradled gently in both of his. His thumb strokes over the edge of gauze — tender, protective.

Sharon stirs slightly, lashes fluttering, voice hoarse. "You came back…"

"I never left, sweetheart. I never will."

She tries to smile — but the movement pulls at the split in her lip. She winces. Andy reaches for a cup of water with a straw and holds it carefully to her mouth. She sips, grateful. Then, as the cup lowers— "They said you couldn't come in. I thought… I thought I'd dreamed you."

Andy's smile doesn't reach his eyes, "No dream, babe. I'm here. You scared the hell out of me..."

Sharon swallows hard. Her throat still aches from both the tube and the bruises. Her eyes search his. "They tried again, Andy… to take it all. To reduce me to…"

(she trails off)

Andy leans forward, resting his forehead gently against her hand. "They didn't. You fought. You survived. You're still here. You're the strongest person I've ever known."

Her eyes glisten with tears. She blinks them back, stubborn, "I feel like a cracked window. Like one more hit and I'll shatter."

"Then let me stand in front of it for a while. Let me hold it together until you're ready."

She nods slowly, her voice barely a breath. "Okay."

Andy lifts her hand and presses it gently to his lips. They don't speak for a while. The machines hum. The shadows stay still. And for the first time in days, Sharon Raydor lets herself rest.

The overhead lights buzz faintly. The clink of keys, the distant echo of boots on concrete, the hum of silence broken only by murmured voices in neighboring cells. Alex Bishop sits alone, hunched on the narrow cot, elbows on his knees, eyes sharp despite the bruising along his jaw and temple. He's dressed in orange now, the smug veneer gone — but not the hate. Never the hate. A low buzz sounds at the end of the block. The cell door opens with a mechanical thunk. A guard enters, dropping a folded newspaper on the floor just inside the bars. Doesn't say a word. Leaves as fast as he came. Bishop waits. Listens to the retreating steps. Then slowly stands. He picks up the paper. The front page headline glares back at him in bold, black ink:

"LAPD Assistant Director Arrested in Widespread Corruption Probe — Davis Tied to Echo System Breach and Attempted Hit"

Bishop stares. His jaw tightens. His lips part slightly — just for a breath. Then he laughs. Dry. Cold. Disbelieving. He turns, sits back down on the cot, still holding the paper. His thumb brushes over Davis's photo, mugshot-style, her eyes hard, her mouth a grim line. "You always did overplay your hand, Winnie." He tosses the paper onto the floor. Leans back against the wall, arms folded. His smirk returns — this one different. Twisted. Furious. "If they're burning her, that means they're getting close," he mutters. He glances up at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. Doesn't flinch. "They want me to feel it. To feel alone. But I'm still in it. Still in their heads." His voice drops to a whisper, "Raydor's not out yet." He leans back against the cold cinderblock, closes his eyes — not to sleep. To plan.

Muted light seeps in around the edges of the window blinds. The rhythmic beep of her heart monitor keeps time in the stillness. Sharon sits propped upright in bed, pale, bruised, an oxygen cannula resting beneath her nose. One arm is bandaged. The other rests across her stomach, hand flexing gently beneath the IV line. Her eyes are open — sharp, but tired. The door clicks quietly. "Knock knock," Fritz's voice is low.

Sharon turns her head slowly, gaze softening when she sees him. Fritz steps inside, a folder in hand — plain, but thick. He doesn't sit.

"I can tell by the way you're holding that, it isn't flowers," her smile is slight.

"No, ma'am. But it might be better," Fritz studies her for a moment. "It's over." He steps closer and sets the folder on the edge of the tray table. Sharon's fingers twitch, but she doesn't reach for it yet..

Her voice is barelly audible over the soft hum of machines, "What did you do?"

"Davis is in custody. Booked an hour ago. We hit her office, pulled everything. She had a full list — names, aliases, old IA files Taylor buried… some of them going back nearly twenty years." He meets her eyes. "She authorized the breach through Echo. Used Taylor's badge more than once. She signed off on the backup server reroute that Bishop used to leak the balcony footage."

Sharon blinks slowly, like the impact hits before she's ready for it. A small, hollow laugh escapes her, "And I thought Bishop was the rot. But she… she let it metastasize."

Fritz nods, "She wanted your silence. That attack in the hospital wasn't just intimidation — it was a hit. Staples gave the order from inside, but Davis approved it. Her way of cleaning the slate."

Sharon turns her head toward the window, breath catching in her throat. The bruising along her temple darkens with the morning light. "They really thought I'd stay buried."

"You didn't." He watches her again, "You were right about her, Sharon. All these years. The resources. The friction. The sabotage. She hated everything you stood for. You were competition she couldn't discredit — so she tried to erase you."

A long silence stretches between them. Finally, Sharon reaches out — gingerly — and opens the folder. Photos. Logs. A clipped printout of the warrant. At the very top: DAVIS, WINNIE – INTERNAL BREACH / ACCESSORY TO ATTEMPTED MURDER. She stares at it for a moment. Then she slides the folder back and closes it softly. "You win the war. But somehow it still feels like a loss."

"That's because it cost you everything just to survive it," He meets her eyes again. "But now you get to decide what happens next."

Sharon's eyes drift back to the window. "I want to go home."

His voice is soft, "We'll get you there. Soon." He squeezes her uninjured hand gently. She nods, once. Quietly watching as he steps out the door. Sharon remains still, the closed folder beside her. She's propped up against a fresh pillow, the sharp morning light cutting across her face, outlining the fading bruises beneath her eyes.

The door opens quietly again. "We knock now, remember?" Provenza gruffs.

Sharon looks up as Provenza enters with Andy just behind him. Andy's gaze goes straight to her. She's pale, tired, but sitting up. Still fighting. His chest aches just looking at her.

Her smile is faint, tired, "If either of you brought coffee, I might forgive you for walking in like that."

"Just what the doctor ordered — caffeine and sarcasm. That's how we know you're still alive." Provenza steps closer and gently sets a warm cup on her tray table. Andy remains behind him for a beat longer, eyes scanning her — the IVs, the bruises, the oxygen line.

"Andy..."

He steps forward. Slowly. His voice low, careful. "You should've seen the look on Russo's face when I walked out on him. Almost made up for the wait."

She chuckles once, but it turns into a cough. Andy's instantly beside her, a hand to her back, steady but cautious. Her voice is breathless, "So you blew your cover."

"You almost died. Again." His eyes darken, "There wasn't another option."

"For the record," Provenza covers, "he tried calling everyone in the building first. Fritz, Julio, the mayor's office—hell, I think he even tried Gavin."

"You didn't have to."

"Yes, I did." Their eyes lock, he reaches for her hand. For a moment, it's just them. The rest of the world — the case, the hospital, everything — slips away.

"Anyway," Provenza ends their moment, "since you're up and cracking jokes, you should know — Davis is in custody."

"I know," Sharon nods. "Fritz told me. Still feels… unfinished."

"It won't for a while," Andy agrees.

Sharon glances at the folder, then looks at them both — her voice soft but resolute. "We spent years chasing down men like Bishop. Fighting politics like Davis. And it still took all of us just to make it to daylight."

"And it'll take all of us to finish it." Provenza softens. Looks at her like a proud father — not something he does often. "But for now, let someone else run point, huh?"

She smirks. "We'll see."

Andy gently caresses her hand, "She's not done. Not by a long shot."

"I'll rest when it's over."

Provenza grumbles something under his breath and sits in the corner, muttering about stubborn redheads and command complexes. Andy just leans in, kisses Sharon's temple — gently, reverently. "Welcome back."

The room is quiet, lit by the soft amber glow of the setting sun slipping through the blinds. Sharon is more upright now, the bruises along her jaw dark but healing, a fresh bandage along her arm. Her hair is pulled back, clean. The fight is still in her eyes — but so is something else: gratitude.

A knock. The door opens.

GAVIN Q. BAKER III steps in — blazer draped over one arm, a bag slung over his shoulder. He looks like a man who's been burning the candle at both ends and still managed to iron his shirt. "You look... awake."

Sharon blinks once, then smiles softly — the kind of smile that only reaches the eyes when the soul's been through something. "And you came back."

Gavin lingers at the foot of the bed, unsure for just a moment. Then she nods — an unspoken invitation. He crosses to the chair beside her and sits.

Her tired jade eyes study her best friend, "You were here before, weren't you? When I was... out of it. I remember—barely. Someone talking to me. Someone holding my hand. That was you."

Gavin nod solemnly, "Yeah. You were shivering. You kept asking for Andy. I didn't know what to say... so I just stayed."

Sharon nods, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, though none fall. "I don't remember much after that. Just flashes. Panic. Then pain. And... silence."

Gavin rubs his hand across his face, "If I'd had any idea what was about to happen—God, Sharon, I never would've left that room."

"You didn't run this time."

"No. I'm done running. I let fear make me stupid. But you — you never do. Even after everything."

Sharon slowly shakes her head, "That's not true. I've been terrified every second since this started. I just didn't know how to say it out loud."

"Well, you don't have to say it alone. Not anymore."

She reaches for his hand. He takes it gently, like he's afraid she might break. "I was so angry at you. So disappointed."

"I know," the shame in his voice is palpable.

"But," she sighs, "I never stopped needing you."

"Good. Because I never stopped being yours to call on. Whatever you need — legal counsel, sharp comebacks, someone to wrangle Provenza — I'm here."

"You might want to invoice for hazard pay on that last one," she smiles softly.

Gavin laughs — real and full. Sharon smiles again, leaning back into the pillows. "Thank you. For showing up. When it mattered most."

"Always. Even if I have to fight your entire squad to get through the door again."

"Well, don't fight Julio. He bites." They both laugh — and this time, it eases the pressure in the room.

Sharon sits propped against a stack of pillows, her hospital gown loose around her collarbone, the bruising at her throat now a mottled purple-blue. Her hair is brushed out and somewhat cleaner from the dry shampoo the nurse helped her with. Her hand, still bandaged, rests on top of the blanket. She looks better. But not well.

The knock is soft, Dr. Lin asks, "May I come in?"

Sharon quietly replies, "Yes."

The door opens and Dr. Lin steps inside, holding a tablet. She offers a calm, professional smile — but there's warmth behind it. She's been Sharon's physician since she first arrived. "I saw your vitals improved a bit overnight. How are you feeling?"

"Like I ran into a truck. Twice."

Dr. Lin chuckles gently, stepping closer. She pulls over a stool and sits at Sharon's side. "Well, you gave all of us a scare yesterday. Your blood pressure spiked again. The trauma compounded everything else. And frankly, we were lucky Julio got there when he did."

Sharon nods, not trusting her voice.

"You're safe now. But your system's still in overdrive — physically and psychologically. We need to be careful with the transition out of ICU."

"I know," Sharon's voice is but a whisper.

"Your scans show some healing — your lungs are recovering from the strain, the concussion is still moderate but stable. Your hand… that's another story. We'll keep monitoring for infection."

Sharon swallows hard, then looks down at her lap. "How long before I can go home?"

Dr. Lin watches her for a beat. "That depends. We'd like to move you to a step-down room today. If that goes well — maybe another two days. But—"

"I can't stay here," the urgency in Sharon's voice startles Dr. Lin.

"Sharon—"

"Please. I'll follow every instruction. I'll check in. I'll let the team hover, I don't care. But I need to be home. I can't breathe here. I'm afraid to close my eyes." Her voice cracks on the last sentence, the admission catching her off guard. Her eyes fill with tears she doesn't blink away.

Dr. Lin puts down the tablet and reaches for her good hand, gentle but firm. "It's not weakness to ask for what you need. But if I discharge you early, I need your word that you'll take the recovery seriously. No skipping rest. No hiding pain. And you'll have round-the-clock support. Not just Andy."

Sharon nods, fast. Too fast. "I'll take all of it. I just… I need to leave before I start unraveling again."

Dr. Lin exhales slowly, studies her. "I'll make the arrangements. But we take it one hour at a time."

Sharon closes her eyes briefly, nodding. The tears finally fall. "Thank you." Dr. Lin stands, gently squeezes her shoulder, and exits just as quietly as she entered. Sharon wipes her face with the edge of the blanket, breathing deep through the pain. She's going home.

The door eases open. Andy steps inside, carrying two cups of coffee. His eyes land on Sharon, sitting very still, hands clenched in the blanket, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. She doesn't look up at first. "Hey…" his voice is soft. "I thought you might want—" He stops mid-step, reading her posture in an instant. He sets the coffee on the tray beside her bed, then drops into the chair closest to her. "What happened?"

Sharon nods, her voice hoarse, "Dr. Lin cleared me to leave ICU. Might be home in a couple days. Maybe sooner."

"That's… great, right?" He doesn't sound convinced.

She lifts her eyes to his. "I asked her to let me go early."

"What? His dark eyes search hers, "Babe, you don't have the strength to get out of bed yet, I think you..."

"I can't stay here, Andy!" she interrupts. "Every time I close my eyes, I hear him. I see the storage room. The camera. I… I need to be somewhere I can breathe. I can't heal in a place that smells like bleach and fear."

"You nearly coded twice," he runs his hand over his face.

"I know."

"Your hand's still bleeding through bandages. Your blood pressure's all over the place—"

"You think I don't know that!" Her voice cuts sharper than she means. Andy stiffens but doesn't rise to it. He exhales, rubs his hands on his knees.

"I know you want to be strong. I know the last thing you want is to feel helpless. But this is fast. Too fast. And if something happens while you're home…"

Sharon's face twists, emotion welling again. She turns away. "You think I don't want to feel safe? I don't even know what that is right now."

Andy stands, pacing once. Then without a word, he heads for the door.

⸻

Andy exits Sharon's room and finds Dr. Lin just down the corridor, consulting a tablet. He approaches quickly, not aggressively — but emotionally keyed up. "Dr. Lin?"

She turns, reading him instantly. "I take it you've heard about the discharge plan."

"You're really letting her leave?"

"We're moving her to step-down care first. Full discharge won't happen until I'm convinced she's strong enough—physically and psychologically."

"She's not sleeping. She's jumpy, guarded, pushing through pain she's not ready to admit. That's not strong — that's survival. She's going to say she's fine until she's flat on the floor again," Andy begins to pace.

"Which is why she won't be alone. And why I need you to be honest with me. Not protective. Not brave. Just honest." Andy deflates, runs a hand through his hair.

"I'm scared, okay? I watched them wheel her into trauma. I saw her like that and thought—I thought she wasn't coming back. And now you're telling me she can go home?"

"She asked to. And I saw the difference in her vitals the moment she did. This hospital kept her alive, but it's also keeping her stuck. She needs to reclaim something. Even if it's just space." Andy nods — slowly. Pained. "If you want to help her, then make sure home feels safe. That she doesn't have to be strong all the time when she gets there."

Andy swallows hard. His voice drops. "She doesn't know how not to be."

"Then show her," Dr. Lin gently pats his shoulder. "One minute at a time."

Andy nods again, quieter this time. "One minute at a time."

⸻

The hum of machines is constant, but something shifts in the air. A nurse gently adjusts the blanket over Sharon's legs, speaking in that soft, efficient voice meant to calm without acknowledging fear. "Okay, Commander Raydor… we're going to get you down to the step-down unit. Dr. Lin's cleared your chart, and your new room is ready."

Sharon nods faintly, "Okay."

Andy, seated beside the bed, rises slowly. He brushes a piece of her hair behind her ear, eyes searching hers. "I'll be right beside you. Whole way."

She nods again. But this time it's stiff. Her fingers curl around the edge of the blanket.

"We'll get you onto the transfer gurney now. Just lean to your left—we'll do the rest." It's clinical. Routine. Nothing threatening. But Sharon flinches when the nurse reaches for her IV line, eyes darting toward the door like she might bolt.

Andy catches it instantly. "Hey… you're okay. You're safe."

She doesn't answer. The nurse gently helps her shift, and Sharon lets out a breath that catches halfway, like it has to climb over panic to get out. As she's lowered onto the stretcher, her jaw clenches, her eyes flick to the corners of the ceiling — watching shadows.

Moments later, the stretcher glides smoothly under the bright white fluorescents, the squeak of the wheels rhythmic and sharp. Sharon's arms are crossed over her chest now, her eyes wide open. The ceiling tiles blur together, one after another — cold, sterile, relentless. Every beep, every shuffle of foot traffic, every opening door feels like a threat. Her pulse picks up. "Just another few minutes. Elevator's up ahead."

They turn a corner. And Sharon's breath catches. It's the lighting — too dim. A gurney parked in a shadowed alcove. For a split second, she sees a flash of memory — a camera light blinking red, concrete, Bishop's voice. She grips the edge of the gurney hard, her bandaged hand trembling.

Walking beside her, Andy doesn't miss anything, "Hey—Sharon. Look at me." Her eyes snap to his. "It's just a hallway. Just a hospital. I'm right here."

"I can't…," the panic rising in her voice, "I can't see what's around the corner."

"Then don't. Just look at me. That's it. We'll take the corners together." She swallows, nods almost imperceptibly. Her grip loosens a little.

In the elevator, the doors slide closed with a mechanical hiss. Sharon's chest rises and falls too fast.

"Almost there." Andy sooths. Her hand reaches for his — blindly — and he takes it instantly. Not squeezing. Just holding. The doors to her new room open. It's quieter. Less sterile. A window filters in weak, late-day sun. Andy helps the nurse guide her onto the bed, his movements tender and calm. "Vitals look steady. Call if you need anything, Commander." Sharon nods faintly, her eyes already locked on the window. The nurse leaves.

Andy adjusts her blanket. "You made it."

"Barely," her voice is distant.

He sits beside her again. "Then barely still counts." She looks at him — just for a second — and her eyes brim with something sharp and grateful. But the wall is still up. For now.

A small corner room near the nurses' station. Neutral tones. A coffee machine that hasn't worked right in months hums in protest. Andy stands near the window, arms crossed tight across his chest, watching the street below like it holds answers.

The door creaks open. Provenza is gruff, yet quiet, "She settled in?"

Andy doesn't turn. "Yeah. She's sleeping. Or pretending to."

Provenza comes in, doesn't say anything for a second. Just stands nearby, hands in his pockets. "You didn't come out of that warehouse to fall apart now, Flynn."

"I'm not falling apart," he pause for a beat, "I'm… managing." Provenza raises a brow. Andy finally turns around. His face is pale, his shoulders tense — like he hasn't breathed right in hours. "She was scared out of her mind being wheeled down a damn hospital hallway. Couldn't see what was around the corner. You know how Sharon used to walk into a courtroom like she owned the place?"

"Every damn time," Provenza smiles slightly at the memory.

"She couldn't even look past a nurses' station today," He runs his hand over his face, "And I… I can't fix it."

"You're not supposed to fix it. You're supposed to stay. And you are."

Andy shakes his head. He's still gripping something tightly — Sharon's necklace, the one with the ring on it, now cleaned but clutched in his hand like an anchor. "She won't let herself fall apart in front of me. But I know it's coming. The nightmares. The silence. The shame that doesn't belong to her — and I don't know if I'll be enough when that wall finally breaks."

Provenza lowers his gaze to the ring in Andy's hand, "You will. Because when it breaks, you won't run. That's what being "enough" means, Andy. Not saving her. Staying with her when she has to save herself."

Andy swallows hard. He nods once — slowly. "I want to take her home. I want to lock the doors and never let anyone near her again."

"That's not love. That's trauma talking. Love's sitting on the floor with her when she won't get off it. Love is being the guy who knows when to hold her and when to shut the hell up and just… be there."

Andy lets out a shaky breath. "She asked about the investigation. I couldn't even say the name Davis without her tensing up. I hate that I'm still part of the mess that almost killed her."

Provenza moves closer. Resting a hand on Andy's shoulder. "Then you make damn sure you're part of the thing that puts it right. That's your job now."

Andy nods again. But this time, with purpose. "Thanks, Louie"

"Now go sit with her. Or eat something that didn't come from a vending machine. Your choice."

Andy almost cracks a smile — almost. He glances back toward Sharon's door. Then heads that way.