Vernon lay face-down in the swamp mud for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. The paralytic had spread from his arm into his chest — breathing felt like sucking air through wet cloth. His right hand was a mess: knuckles split open to the bone from the concrete wall, skin peeled back in ragged flaps, blood mixing with swamp muck into a thick paste. The chemical burns from the foam were worse — patches on his calves and forearms where the suit had torn, skin blistered and weeping clear fluid, raw pink underneath like fresh meat. His lungs burned from the chlorine gas that had leaked past the mask seal; every inhale scraped like sandpaper. *cough* — a small, wet rasp escaped him, barely audible over the drone of insects. No broken bones, no deep lacerations — just the slow, grinding damage of poison and exhaustion. He was alive, but only just.
The thump-thump-thump of rotor blades cut through the haze first. Then the downdraft hit — reeds flattening, water rippling outward. A black Krossvale helicopter dropped low, skids almost kissing the mud. The side door slid open mid-hover. Two men in tac gear jumped down — one with a med bag, the other covering with a rifle. They waded straight to him.
"Target located," one barked into his comms. "Alive. Barely."
They didn't waste time talking to him. One hooked under his arms, the other grabbed his legs. Vernon grunted — pain lancing through his burned calves — as they half-carried, half-dragged him to the bird. The paralytic made his limbs feel like lead; he couldn't help much. They loaded him onto the floor of the cabin, strapped him to a backboard, ripped the ruined hazmat suit off in rough pulls. Cold air hit his burns; he hissed through clenched teeth. *cough-cough* — shallow, sharp, like gravel shifting in his chest.
"Pulse weak, BP dropping," the medic said, slapping an IV line into his good arm. "He's got chemical exposure — nerve agent traces, acid burns second-degree. Get us airborne, now."
The chopper lifted — Vernon's stomach lurched — and banked hard toward the city.
The flight was a blur of noise and pain. The medic worked fast: saline drip, broad-spectrum antibiotics pushed through the IV, burn gel slapped onto the worst patches, oxygen mask over his face. Vernon drifted in and out — the thump of rotors fading, then roaring back. He kept seeing Ira's face — the red handprint, her wide eyes — and each time the guilt hit harder than the burns. Another small cough rattled through him under the mask, fogging the plastic briefly.
They landed on the private helipad atop Northgate General Hospital — a sleek glass tower on the north edge of the city. Medics were already waiting: gurney rolling up, team in scrubs swarming. Vernon was transferred fast — straps undone, IV lines handed off, backboard slid onto the hospital gurney. Someone cut away the rest of his clothes; cold gel hit his burns again, making him jerk. *cough* — dry and painful this time, scraping his raw throat.
"Male, mid-20s, chemical exposure, second-degree burns to calves and forearms, possible nerve agent inhalation, right hand severe lacerations and fractures," the flight medic rattled off. "Paralytic in system — atropine countermeasure administered en route. BP 90/60, pulse 110, sats 92% on O2."
They wheeled him straight into trauma bay 1. Bright lights. Voices overlapping. IV lines multiplied. Someone stabbed a new line into his neck — central line, cold rush of fluid. Pain meds hit the drip — morphine, slow warmth spreading through the ache. A doctor — older man, sharp eyes — leaned over him.
"Vernon Krossvale," he called, the weight of the name making him shiver for a moment before he quickly returned to his professional tone.
"You're lucky you're still breathing. Let's see the damage."
They cut the rest of the suit away. He examined the burns first — calves and forearms blistered, some areas weeping, others already peeling. "Second-degree, partial thickness. No third-degree charring — good. Chemical burns, not thermal. We'll debride, irrigate, silver sulfadiazine dressing."
The hand was worse. He peeled back the soaked bandage — knuckles laid open, bone visible in places, tendons glistening white through torn skin. "Open fractures, multiple. You punched concrete?"
Vernon's voice rasped through the oxygen mask. "Yeah." A faint, involuntary cough followed the word, barely more than a hitch in his breathing.
He didn't comment. Just nodded to the ortho resident. "Get him to CT, then OR. We need to wash out the hand, stabilize the fractures, antibiotics IV. He's septic risk high from the swamp exposure."
They wheeled him to imaging — CT scanner humming, cold table under his back. Then straight to surgery.
He woke in recovery eight hours later — throat raw from intubation, right hand in a heavy splint and dressing, IV in his left arm dripping antibiotics and fluids. Burns on his legs and arms wrapped in white gauze, silver cream seeping through in places. The paralytic was gone — limbs heavy but his own again. A small, lingering cough bubbled up as he tried to clear his throat.
The same doctor came in, chart in hand.
"You're stable," he said. "Hand's a mess — three open fractures, two tendons partially severed. We debrided, flushed, pinned the bones. You'll need at least two more surgeries for the tendons, maybe skin grafts if the burns don't heal clean. Chemical burns are second-degree — painful but should heal without major scarring if infection stays out. Lungs took a hit from the chlorine — mild pneumonitis. We've got you on steroids and nebulizers. You'll cough like hell for a week, but you'll breathe."
He looked at him.
"You're young. Strong. You'll recover. But you're damn lucky. Another ten minutes in that place and we'd be talking organ failure."
Vernon stared at the ceiling. Voice rough.
"How long?"
"Three weeks minimum inpatient. Hand rehab after that — months."
He nodded once. Didn't argue. Another quiet cough escaped as he swallowed.
The doctor left.
Vernon lay there — pain dull under the morphine, body heavy, mind circling back to one thing.
Ira.
The red mark on her cheek.
The way she'd looked at him — disgust, fear, something else he couldn't name.
He closed his eyes.
The guilt was worse than the burns.
And it wasn't going anywhere.
---
Kai stepped into Vernon's hospital room without knocking. The door clicked shut behind him. The place smelled of antiseptic and burnt skin. Vernon lay propped up in the bed, right hand splinted, burns dressed in white gauze, IV line taped to his left arm. He looked up—calm, quiet, eyes steady despite the exhaustion carved into his face.
Kai stopped at the foot of the bed.
"So you're alive," he said, voice flat. "Good."
Vernon didn't reply.
Kai tilted his head slightly. "That was the hardest one you've ever done. You know it."
Still nothing.
Kai moved closer, hands in his pockets.
"You'll be stuck in here a while. Don't worry—I'll arrange everything. Private room, best care, no questions."
Vernon's gaze drifted to the window, as if he didn't actually cared. He was thinking about the bra. About Ira. That's all he cared for. A soft, restrained cough moved through his chest.
Kai knew that.
He lowered himself into the chair beside Vernon's bed.
"And yes… your reward."
Vernon looked at him, eager to claim it. For the first time in his life, he desperately wanted his reward.
Kai pulled a small box from his coat pocket—black velvet, gold trim, elegant in a cold way. He set it on the blanket.
Vernon stared at it for a second, then reached with his good hand and opened the lid. Ira's red satin lace bra lay inside, folded neatly. After a moment, he closed the lid again and locked it.
Kai watched him.
"What made you choose the bra?" Kai asked, tone even, curious in a dangerous way.
Vernon looked away, voice low. "I told you. I liked it." A small cough punctuated the last word.
Kai studied him— like he was peeling back skin.
Kai stepped closer. "But why?
(A pause)
Do you know whose it is?"
Vernon's eyes immediately shifted towards his eyes—steady, sharp.
Kai's lips curved—just a fraction, almost amused. "She's one of the students from Draxton High, isn't she? Is she pretty?"
Vernon's jaw tightened, he looked away.
"I don't know anyone from Draxton High."
Kai's smile stayed. "Really?"
"You're bad at lying."
Vernon looked at the wall infront of him . "Leave them."
Kai kept his gaze at him, waiting to know more.
Vernon spoke again, quieter. "Leave the girls of Draxton High. There are plenty of other women. Just leave the schoolgirls." Another faint cough, almost swallowed.
Kai held his gaze for several seconds.
Then he nodded once—small, controlled.
"Okay. That place already caused enough trouble. I'm not going back."
Vernon looked down at the box in his hand.
Kai leaned towards Vernon.
"But remember," he said, voice dropping to something colder, deadlier. "Don't fall in love with any girl. If you do, that becomes your weakness. And I can't allow you to go weak."
Vernon looked up.
His eyes met Kai's.
Kai's eyes were flat, unblinking.
"If you ever fall in love with any girl," he said softly, "I'll kill her."
Vernon knew it.
Kai stood up and said, "Rest a while. It's been a rough time for you."
He turned towards the door and left.
The door closed with a quiet click.
Vernon stared at box and said inside his mind,
"Get out.
Get out of this dying city before it swallows you too.
No monster should ever find you, this darkness shouldn't even touch the edge of your life.
Just… be happy somewhere far from here.
Be safe.
Please… always be safe."
To be continued.....