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St Vincent’s ED
วันที่เผยแพร่:
2026-04-20 09:23:20
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werewolves Prologue
The tide at Botany Bay was low and patient, the kind that lapped at rock ledges and took its time about everything. Tom Michaels stood on the headland with a rod in his hand and the wind at his back, a thermos of bad coffee cooling at his feet. Sydney hummed on the horizon—airport beacons winking, freight lights moving like slow constellations—but out here it was just salt and night and the hopeful tick of line through a roller.He was early. Jake’s flight would land in under an hour. Tom told Leslie he’d swing by the headland first, wet a line, clear the nerves that had crept in since the last phone call. Fathers didn’t say “I missed you” easily; a snapper on ice and a hot breakfast sometimes said it better.The rod tip trembled. Not a bite—just wind—and then settled again.A second rhythm arrived, so soft he mistook it for the basin-belly thud of waves under rock. It wasn’t. It was quicker than the sea and steadier than wind. A pulse. Like someone else’s heartbeat laid alongside his
werewolves Arrivals
The sun hung low above the clouds, casting a soft gold across the sky as a solitary Qantas A380 cut through the winter air. Far below, Sydney sprawled beneath a veil of mist, the city just beginning to stir. It was a cool morning—eleven degrees and rising—mostly clear, a few scattered clouds.In the cockpit, Captain John Simms sat comfortably in the left seat, greying hair neatly trimmed beneath his cap, moustache framing a worn but kind face. Beyond the windscreen, sunlight glittered on the Pacific. First Officer Susan Wilkinson, blonde hair pinned tight beneath her cap, watched the descent with steady hands and a practiced calm.“Well, it’s that time,” Simms said, flicking a switch. “Let’s get home without a hitch, Susan.”“Yes, Captain.”Simms pressed the comm: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’ve begun our descent into Sydney this fine winter morning. Current temperature is a crisp eleven degrees, skies mostly clear with a few scattereds. If you’re on the ri
werewolves St Vincent’s ED
The automatic doors of St Vincent’s Emergency burst open with a hiss as a paramedic pushed in a gurney, his face drawn tight with urgency. He was broad-shouldered, grizzled, eyes tired from nights that never ended. The gurney rattled over tile, cutting through the hum of voices, the far-off sirens, the steady blip of monitors.“Motor vehicle collision!” he barked. “Male, fifties. Cardiac arrest en route—ROSC in the rig. Vitals unstable.”Dr. Kimberly Hall, twenty-six, sharp-eyed and composed, was scanning charts when the commotion reached her. Auburn hair in a neat ponytail, stethoscope hanging like a badge of office and burden, she pivoted and met the team outside Trauma Bay Two.“What have we got?” she said, already falling in beside the moving bed.“Multiple rib fractures—likely left-sided flail segment,” the paramedic said. “Suspected punctured left lung; decreased air entry, tracheal deviation at pickup. Left chest is dull and tight. Shattered femur—mid-shaft. BP trending down. H
werewolves The Call
The sun had already dipped behind the apartment blocks by the time Jake reached his street. He stood a moment at the gate, taking in the familiar bland façade—white concrete stained with time, cracked sills, hedges gone feral over a low wall. It all looked the same, like nobody had really lived here in years. Maybe nobody had.The name on the plaque still made him wince: Fellatio Heights. A bored developer’s joke from another era. It used to be good for a laugh—until Kimberly moved in and ribbed him about it every time friends visited. Now it just felt stupid. Empty. Another echo of something warm that had gone cold.He climbed the narrow stairwell. The handrail was cold metal under his palm. Bleach and cheap citrus cleaner stung his nose. The light above his door flickered in that same epileptic stutter. He paused, then keyed the lock.The apartment exhaled stale air.Same scuffed timber. Same dented leather couch. The TV remote exactly where it had fallen after a half-hearted argume
werewolves The Firebird
The dim concrete underbelly of the apartment block—oil stains, fluorescent flicker—hid something out of time.Amid the bland curve of modern sedans and anonymous SUVs, one shape stood apart: a low-slung form under a heavy grey blanket, dust piled thick as if it had slept for years.Jake clattered down the stairs, bootsteps echoing. His eyes found the familiar silhouette tucked deep in the corner.He grinned. “There you are.”He peeled the cover back. Dust swirled in the light like ash from a campfire. Beneath it, a jet-black 1985 Pontiac Firebird emerged—sleek, restored, and somehow still gleaming under months of grime. Midnight paint turned the fluorescents into a noir reflection; the gold pinstripe winked through the dust. Dead centre on the plates: HOT 1.“Hello, beautiful.”His palm skimmed the bonnet—reunion and ritual. He’d rebuilt this car bolt by bolt between deployments, welding steel and sanding down the parts of his life that wouldn’t keep.“Dad’s home.”Hood latch, click,
werewolves Operating Theatre Four
As Jake pushed through the automatic doors to St Vincent’s Emergency, a floor above—behind sealed glass and cold white light—Operating Theatre Four thrummed at the edge of catastrophe. The room was a bright, frigid machine. Metal. Monitors. Breath made electric. Sterile drapes framed Tom Michaels, pale beneath the blue, tubes at mouth and arms, chest open under the hands of Dr. Victor Yuen. Beside him, scrubbed and steady, Dr. Kimberly Watkins worked as first assist; her eyes were sharp behind a fogged face shield, voice low and exact.“BP drifting—eighty systolic,” called the anaesthetist, Lindsay, eyes on the waveform. “Heart rate forty-eight and falling. Vent pressures up.”“Activate massive transfusion,” Yuen said, calm over the alarm. “O-neg on pressure. Get me TXA. Noradrenaline up to point-one.”“TXA in,” Lindsay replied. “Norad running. Crossmatched units en route.”Kim lifted a jagged rib fragment with forceps, careful not to shred the torn lung beneath. “Intercostal artery
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