Chapter 1.

Emerald Ford.

Present day.

Grenville Hospital.

Silvaton Ridge, Colorado.

Saturday, January 16th, 2055.

Twenty nine years later…

Morning.

My steps are brisk as I crunch on the snow covered ground, trying to shorten the distance between my parking spot and the hospital doors.

Cold bites through my boots. My breath escapes in sharp pale plumes, like I’m already running behind my own life.

“Late for your shift, Dr. Ford.” Marcell’s teasing voice reaches me from the guard booth at the entrance.

He's always teasing.

“Don’t remind me, Marcell,” I say hurriedly, extending my ID card. “The chief would eat me alive if he finds out I’m late again this week.”

I pull my coat tighter around myself as another breath from me fogs the air.

“Punch in, Dr. Ford,” Marcell says loudly to the computer in front of him.

“Welcome, Dr. Ford. You’re late again.”

The AI’s familiar female voice rings out, crisply and efficiently as always.

That sharp, criticizing tone, a daily reminder of how imperfect my life is.

“Yeah, yeah. Mode 4-0-1.” I mutter. “Maybe my life would’ve been as perfect as yours if I’d been created as artificial intelligence.”

I retrieve my card from Marcell, and he hisses softly, pressing an index finger to his lips.

“Shh… She’s got feelings, Dr. Ford, when you remind her she’s an AI.”

Our usual banter, every shift day when I find him at the booth.

I let out a small, amused chuckle and move on, choosing to ignore all the men in our modern world and their machines.

The doors part down the middle, and I walk briskly inside, still ignoring the loud, censuring welcome from the computer at the entrance.

'Welcome, Dr. Ford.' As if there’s something else hidden beneath the greeting.

I push into the elevator and hit the button for ER, waiting as the lift hums upward. I stare ahead, deliberately ignoring the memories flashing at the back of my mind. Bitter memories. Ones I’d rather keep buried inside me. The elevator doors slide open, thank God. And before I can take two steps, another elevator pings beside me.

Chaos instantly spills out. Paramedics rush forward. Their voices sharp and urgent, as they push a gurney at full speed. The patient is covered in blood, struggling to breathe. His chest rising and falling in uneven jerks.

Instinct immediately takes over. My eyes widen and I rush to his side.

“What happened to the patient?” I ask Charles, one of the paramedics, as I grab the gurney and help push it down the hallway into the ER bay.

His breathing is labored and wrong.

“Found shot in his house minutes ago by his girlfriend,” Charles says quickly. “She was still holding the gun when the cops arrived. Neighbor called it in...Said they heard arguing earlier. As usual.”

Domestic violence. I mutter to myself.

Immediately nurses fall in. A couple of doctors join us as well.

“What’s the depth of the wound?” Dawn Arch asks briskly as we transfer the patient from the gurney onto the bed.

Dawn, and ER doctor, a resident like me, and my best friend. I yank on sterile gloves, grab scissors, and rip his shirt open. The wound on his abdomen is ugly, deep and angry. Soaking through the gauze already pressed against it.

“It’s a deep flesh wound,” Kate, the other paramedic, says. “But I don’t think it punched through any organs.”

Dawn and I exchange a look before we get to work. Medications are administered. Oxygen masks fitted. Tubes instantly secured.

“Give something to stop the bleeding, now!” I call out as I pull the gauze away.

Blood coats my gloves, as well as splashes my blue coat. I ignore it and set the soaked gauze aside. A nurse appears instantly, setting up an IV, while another prepares CCs of what I pray are coagulants.

Seconds stretch. Then slowly, mercifully, he stabilizes. The bleeding is arrested. His breathing evens out. The desperate gasps finally soften.

“Is there an available OR for this patient?!” Trevor calls out.

He’s one of the employed doctors here, not a resident like Dawn and me.

“OR fifteen is available, Doctor Trevor Aditiya,” the announcing officer’s voice replies over the speakers.

“Alright, ladies! Let’s move him! This guy isn’t dying on us!” Doctor Trevor calls out.

We wheel the patient towards the OR. Inside, bright lights and steel greet us. Theater blues everywhere. I prep quickly. Instinct taking over.

“The wound is superficial,” Trevor says as the scan comes up on the screen. “Bullet didn’t make it through all that muscle he’s got on his abdomen.”

No smile from me accompanies Trevor's attempt at humor. The others try to ease into it.

But I don’t.

This case hits too close to home. Not because of the blood. Not because of the wound. But because I keep wondering what kind of anger pushes a woman to shoot the man she loves. I keep wondering if I'd have pulled the trigger too, when everything exploded in my face a year ago?

The memories come anyway, even when I push them back. Memories of Arthur and I. Memories of Brooklyn, two years ago before it all exploded in my face.

“I’m not feeling too well, Emerald.” Arthur's voice echoes in my head now, as my hands move automatically during surgery.

I’d reached for him immediately when he called. I had been shocked and worried. He’d looked pale that morning as we ate breakfast. His face drawn tight. We’d been together seven years. Seven years of plans, promises and hope.

He’d already promised me marriage. I wore his engagement ring, which he gave me on my twenty sixth birthday, March 7th. The previous year. I’d been elated ever since. Floating on clouds.

Doctor Arthur Taylor. Son of the owner of Taylor Hospital in Brooklyn. Six years older than me. He’d asked me out when I was twenty, during my second year in medical college. Back when my high school mates liked reminding me how unlucky I was to have lost my fated mate before I was even born.

“What’s wrong?” I’d asked, kissing him softly.

He handed me a piece of paper. I opened and read it. A test report.

'Renal failure. One kidney...'

I’d gone cold.

“What… why?” I’d whispered. I had cried, pulling him into my arms.

We didn’t go to work that day. We stayed in bed, holding each other. The air silent and heavy with unspoken words. I was terrified. What if the other kidney failed? What if he died?

“They say if I get the kidney of a werewolf, I’ll be fine,” Arthur said quietly.

I’d stilled, propping myself on my elbow.

“But that could kill you,” I blurted out. “Those transplants kill humans. It’s frowned upon. You can’t do that.”

He’d looked at me, deeply then.

“If I had your kidney, Emerald, I’d survive. We could marry...”

My kidney.

“But you’re human, Arty,” I’d said, sitting up. “That would kill you. I can’t be the reason you die.”

He’d pressed harder. His words twisting into pressure. “You said you loved me. Wouldn’t you give me just one kidney so I can live?”

I’d climbed out of bed, paced the room. Watching him in horror. He looked pale. But pale or not, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t live knowing I killed the man I loved.

“I can’t,” I’d sobbed. “If you die, I’d never forgive myself. I love you too much.”

He’d opened his arms. Promised we’d find another way. I’d gone to him, held him. I’d believed him.

If only I’d known he was lying. If only I’d known the report was a ploy. A test. His family’s way of deciding if I was worthy enough to marry into their name.

The monitor beeps loudly and sharply now, dragging my thoughts back to the present. Panic instantly erupts inside me. Instantly erupts inside the theater.

"We're losing him! We're losing him guys!" Doctor Trevor's voice comes now, loud and aggressive.

Fear and panic claw Inside my throat all at once.

I try to gather my thoughts. I try to save him. I hope he doesn't die on me. I hope my hands are steady enough to save him.

The monitor screams loudly again.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Oh no! It's flatlining. My voice screams loudly inside my head.

And I realize that this isn’t a superficial wound anymore.