The elevator hummed around them, a box of stale recycled air and brushed steel, and Graves counted each soft sway of the car as it climbed while her fingers worried at the tubing of her stethoscope. The rubber stuck briefly to the skin of her neck every time she shifted, a little tacky with the heat trapped under the white coat, so she lifted it, adjusted it, let it fall again because her hands needed something to do.
Beside her, Brock filled his half of the space like he'd been poured into it and left to set: feet planted wide, shoulders locked, jaw clenched so tight the muscle near his ear stood out in a hard line. He stared at the numbers above the doors as they clicked upward, not blinking much, not moving at all except for the slow flex of his fingers where they hung at his sides.
Graves was tired in a way that clung behind her eyes, a haze leftover from last night. She'd stayed late in the med bay with the cabinets open and a clipboard balanced on her knee, ticking through vials and bandages, when Roth and Dane's boys had dragged themselves through her door. Three of them, staggering and swearing, shirts glued to their skin with drying blood. Head injuries, raised knots along their skulls, ribs mottled in dark color, one shoulder hanging a little low.
One of them had his forearm wrapped in a towel he refused to take off until she snapped at him; under it, the skin was torn in a neat crescent, teeth clear as any animal bite. None of them would explain, throat muscles jumping as they glanced at each other and away, and she'd done what she always did in those moments: logged the damage, cleaned what needed cleaning, stapled, stitched, glued, dispensed pills, and kept her mouth shut.
This morning, when Brock found her and laid out, in clipped pieces, that Harper had been attacked in her cell by three men, the pieces slid into place with unpleasant ease. He hadn't used certain words, hadn't gone near them, like his tongue wanted distance from the images, but he didn't need to. The way he stood while he spoke, weight coiled, hands flexing like they remembered throats and bone; the way his gaze skated away when she asked if they'd gotten as far as they'd meant to.
He gave her the list of injuries—laceration at the neck, poorly placed blows to the ribs, likely concussion, old bruising under new—and she wrote them in her head as he talked, even while another part of her replayed the last time she'd seen Harper on an exam table. Weeks ago, small and hollowed out, eyes like she'd already stepped away from her own body. Graves had honestly filed the girl under the quiet column in her mind where the soon-to-be-dead went. Hearing she was still breathing, that Brock had been training her, had been unsettling enough; walking into this elevator with the knowledge that three men had tried to take turns on that same body left Graves far more worried about what she'd find in Harper's eyes than what she'd find under the bandages.
The elevator doors slid open with a muted sigh and cool air from the corridor slipped in, brushing against Graves' face as she hitched her medical bag higher on her shoulder and stepped out beside him. This floor was quieter than the levels she knew, carpet softening footsteps, walls painted in something warmer than institutional white, and it only underlined that she'd never been invited up here before. Brock moved ahead, keycard already in hand, the set of his shoulders unchanged.
"Nolan rigged the spare room," he said as they walked. "Lock on the outside. I can keep her up here, away from the rest, and still make sure she stays contained."
Contained. The word slid under her skin like a cold draft through a crack in a window, snagging on all the other things she knew about cells and restraints in this building, and she pushed it down into the same place she stored bite marks and unexplained bruises. It wasn't her job to decide what any of this meant. Her job was to keep people breathing and moving, so she nodded once and let silence stand in for any answer.
Brock reached his door, swiped the card, and stepped aside just enough to motion her in ahead of him before guiding her down a short hallway toward a single closed door in the hall.
Graves shifted the strap of her bag again, then tipped her chin up to look at him. "I want you outside while I examine her," she said. "She doesn't need an audience for this."
His gaze dropped to the door handle, then back to her, and his answer came out flat. "I'm staying." Stubborn as concrete.
She drew in a breath, held it a moment, then let it go through her teeth. "Fine. Then stay by the door. Don't crowd her."
For a second she thought he might argue with even that, but he gave a tight nod, reached past her, and turned the deadbolt with a solid, final click before pushing the door inward.
Harper must've heard them in the hall; she was already upright against the pillows, blanket bunched in her fists, eyes fixed on the doorway like it was the mouth of something that had swallowed her before. The look on her face hit Graves first—a tight, braced stillness, muscles wired for impact, gaze too wide and too focused, the way people stared at doors when experience had taught them that open meant hands, weight, pain.
Something pulled low in Graves' stomach, an old, familiar tug she got with kids in emergency rooms and women who wouldn't explain why they flinched when anyone stepped too close. Then Harper registered her, really saw her past Brock's shoulder, and the tension in her expression shifted, easing a fraction. The tight line of her mouth loosened, her grip on the blanket slackened, and a flicker of recognition moved through her features—surprise first, then something close to relief.
Graves flicked a look back at Brock, a small tilt of her head and a narrowing of her eyes that carried the same message she'd given him in the hall. Stay.
He stayed. Hands loose at his sides, back to the wall beside the door, gaze fixed on the bed but body held carefully still, like he knew any sudden move would land wrong.
Graves stepped forward, the weight of the bag pulling at her shoulder, and let her attention settle fully on the girl in the bed. "How are you?" Her voice came out softer than it had been in the elevator, pitched for exam rooms and late-night consults. "Harper, talk to me."
Harper's eyes tracked her approach, a quick dart to Brock and back again before she answered. "I'm okay." It was automatic, the way people always reached for that word first, the syllables dry at the back of her throat.
Graves eased down onto the edge of the mattress beside her, setting the bag on the floor so it didn't drag the bed. Up close, the damage was easier to catalog. White tape crossed Harper's neck in a careful line, edges curling slightly, the skin around it flushed and irritated. Her bottom lip was split, a small scab tugging when she moved her mouth. Swelling thickened the flesh above one eye, the lid a little puffy, color deepening from pink to something darker.
Her nose looked like it had lost a fight twice. The bridge sat mostly straight under the bruising, but the skin there was swollen and tender-looking, a faint ridge where bone had been pushed back into place. Yellow and purple shadows pooled under both eyes in uneven crescents, the kind of bruising that traveled after a break, and faint dried blood clung at the edge of one nostril where someone hadn't quite managed to wipe it all away.
Graves let her gaze travel once more over the bandages and bruises, then met Harper's eyes.
"Brock told me what happened last night," she murmured, keeping her tone even. "That some men came into your cell."
Harper's gaze slid sideways to Brock for a moment, quick and wary, then came back. Whatever she found in Graves' face seemed to scrape something loose inside her. Moisture gathered along her lower lashes, a thin shine that didn't quite spill over yet, and her fingers tightened in the blanket as if she could hold herself together with her hands alone.
Graves caught the way the wet gathered, the way Harper seemed to hold her own eyes rigid so it wouldn't spill. That reaction, to a single mention and nothing graphic, told Graves as much as any scan.
"Alright," she said quietly. "We're gonna work from the top down, okay?"
She waited until Harper gave the smallest nod, then reached down for her bag, dragging it closer so she didn't have to lean far from the bed.
Graves lifted a hand slowly, letting Harper see it the whole way, and brought it up toward her face. "Look right here for me." She held up a finger in the narrow space between them and moved it side to side, then in toward the bridge of Harper's nose, watching how her eyes tracked. Up close she could see the fine tremor in Harper's lashes, the faint sheen at the corners, but her pupils stayed even, responsive.
"Any spinning? When you sit up. Or move too fast?"
"A little. When I first woke up. It's better now."
"Any trouble seeing? Double, or like things smear when you look at them?"
Harper gave a small shake of her head.
Graves leaned in to study the damage around her nose. The bridge sat mostly straight under the swelling, color spreading in uneven shadows under both eyes. She pressed lightly along the bone with the pads of her fingers, feeling for any obvious step-offs.
"That tender?" she asked, when Harper flinched.
"Yeah. But it's… manageable."
Graves let her hand fall back to her lap, gave her a moment, then tipped Harper's chin slightly to the side to bring the taped line at her throat into view. The skin around the dressing was flushed, edges of the tape puckered from movement, a smear of dried red at one corner where it had bled through.
"I'm gonna look at your neck now," she said. "I need to take this off and put a new one on. I'll be careful."
Harper's fingers tightened in the blanket again. Her gaze skipped past Graves for a second, drawn toward the doorway, toward Brock's motionless frame, before coming back. She nodded once.
Graves reached up with both hands, moving as if she were handling something fragile, and began to ease up one edge of the tape. The adhesive lifted with a faint tug on the raw skin beneath. The instant her fingers brushed close to the bandaged cut, Harper's breathing changed, pulling in faster, shallower pulls that stayed high in her chest.
"Hey," Graves murmured. "Eyes on me."
Harper obeyed, fixing on her face, jaw clenched tight.
"There you go," Graves went on, keeping her tone low as she worked the dressing free in slow, even motions, revealing the slice beneath. The cut tracked across the front of Harper's neck in a thin, angry line, edges a little swollen but closed, the kind of wound that would have turned out very different if whoever held the knife had pressed just a little deeper.
She felt Brock watching from the doorway, the weight of his attention a pressure between her shoulder blades, and kept her focus fixed on the girl in front of her instead. "You're doing fine," she said. "Deep breath in. Let it out."
Harper drew in air through her nose, shaky but obedient, and some of the tightness started to ease around her eyes.
Graves set the old strip of tape aside on the blanket, then reached down for her bag. The zipper rasped softly as she opened it and pulled out a small bottle and a packet of gauze.
"This part might sting a little," she said. "Stay with me."
She dampened the gauze and brought it up, giving Harper one last moment to brace before she touched the cut. The first swipe along the line drew a hiss through her teeth, throat working under Graves' fingers, but she held still. Graves cleaned away the dried red at the edges, working from the center out, careful not to tug at the healing skin more than she had to. Once the area looked clear and fresh, she blotted it dry and reached for a new dressing.
"Almost done," she murmured, laying the clean strip over the wound. She smoothed the tape down along either side, pressing just enough to seal it, then drew her hands back and checked Harper's color again. The breathing looked steadier now, deeper, her shoulders not quite as tight.
"Alright," Graves said, letting a little businesslike tone back in. "I'm gonna check the rest of you. Over your clothes, nothing fancy."
She looped the stethoscope from around her neck and warmed the diaphragm briefly in her palm before sliding it under the collar of Harper's shirt. "Breathe in," she instructed. "All the way. Out." She moved the disk across Harper's back and chest in slow increments, listening, counting, then eased it away and let it hang again. Lungs clear enough, from what she could hear up here.
Graves' hands went to Harper's sides next, fingers spreading along the line of her ribs through the fabric. She started high and worked down, pressing with firm, even pressure. Brock had given her a rough map earlier—worst along the left, front and side—and she watched Harper's face as much as she felt for damage.
"Here?" Graves asked, when Harper flinched under her touch.
"Yeah." The word came out tight. "There and… a little lower."
Graves shifted her hands down a span, tested another few spots, then eased off. "Bruising, maybe a crack," she said quietly. "Nothing that's screaming at me right now, but you move careful until it settles."
She worked through the rest in a steady rhythm—palms along shoulders to check the way they rolled, a light squeeze at biceps and forearms, thumbs brushing over the backs of Harper's hands where the skin looked scraped and swollen across the knuckles. Her gaze tracked the fading finger marks at Harper's wrists, and the way the fabric of her pants dragged over tender spots along her hips and thighs when she shifted. Each thing went into the mental chart Graves kept, a layered image of hurt that reached back further than last night.
By the time Graves leaned back a little to give her space, sweat had gathered along Harper's hairline and the blanket under her fingers showed the twist of her grip. Brock still hadn't moved from his post by the door, and Graves could feel both of them watching, waiting for whatever came next.
She rested her forearms on her thighs, gave Harper a moment to breathe, then met her eyes again.
"Harper," she said quietly, "I need to ask you something harder now. Do you remember everything that happened in the cell last night?"
Harper's fingers tightened in the blanket. She looked down at them, then back up. "Yeah," she whispered. "I remember that. I don't… there's gaps after, but I remember what they did."
Graves nodded once. "Alright." She kept her voice level. "I'm gonna be direct. I need to know if anything went inside you. Anywhere. Mouth, down here"—she tapped lightly over Harper's hip through the blanket—"or back there."
Harper's throat worked under the fresh bandage. "No." The word came out fast, almost like she was afraid it might change if she took too long.
Graves held her gaze. "You're certain?"
"Yes." Harper swallowed again. "They didn't get that far."
Relief moved through Graves like air after holding her lungs too long. Some of the pressure behind her eyes eased. She let out a slow breath and gave a small nod. "Good. That's good."
She let that sit for a moment, then circled back to the other piece. "You said you don't remember much after. I want to be clear on that." She glanced over her shoulder to Brock. "Was she out at any point? Fully unconscious?"
"No." His answer came without hesitation. "She stayed awake. Shut down, but awake."
Graves studied him for a beat, then gave a short nod and looked back to the girl on the bed. She'd seen Brock do damage in a dozen different ways; she'd never seen him cross that particular line, even when it would've been easy.
"Alright," she said, softening her tone again. "What you're describing is normal after something like that. Brains go foggy around the edges. They drop pieces so you can get through it." She shifted a little closer, careful not to bump her. "What matters right now is this: those men aren't coming through that door again. You're out of that cell downstairs, and you're here."
Harper's gaze flicked past her to Brock and back. The wariness stayed, the tight line of her mouth unchanged, but her breathing evened out a little, like the thought of concrete walls and that metal door downstairs had stepped half a pace farther away.
Graves let the silence sit for a few breaths, then let her gaze travel over Harper again, this time not just for bruises and bandages.
She remembered the girl Brock had marched into her bay weeks ago: thin but solid, muscle sitting under the skin like coiled wire, eyes hollow but body still carrying the echo of training. Now the angles had sharpened. Harper's cheekbones stood out more than they should, hollows carved under them, collarbones a little too clear above the collar of her shirt. The line of her arm where it showed below the sleeve looked stringier, less like someone who'd chosen leanness and more like someone who'd been worn down to it.
"She's lost weight," Graves said, still looking at Harper but tilting her words toward the doorway. "More than I like. Muscle too. If you expect her to heal and keep up with whatever you're running her through, she needs proper nutrition. Regular meals. Enough of them."
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Brock shift, just a fraction, like the words landed somewhere he didn't want examined. "I'll work on it," he said. His tone stayed even, but something in his jaw tightened, and Graves filed that away with everything else.
She turned back to Harper, lifted a hand, and set it lightly on her shoulder. The muscle under her palm was tense, like it couldn't remember how to do anything else.
"You're tougher than you know," she said. "I'm sorry you're going through this. All of it. But you're gonna be okay."
Harper blinked at her, lashes sticking together, and Graves watched the sheen gather again at the corners of her eyes. It tugged at something she tried very hard, most days, to keep tucked away. She didn't make a habit of getting attached. In this place, patients were temporary by design; you patched them, sent them back upstairs, and waited to see which ones came back on tables and which ones never came back at all.
But this girl in front of her, still wearing the shape of a prisoner even in clean clothes, being bent toward a future she hadn't chosen, put a slow, unwelcome ache in Graves' chest.
She hesitated, feeling the weight of Brock's presence at her back, then closed the distance. One arm slid carefully around Harper's shoulders, the other bracing against the mattress so she didn't crowd too hard, and she drew her in.
Harper went rigid at first, spine braced, breath caught. The reaction was so immediate that Graves nearly let go, but then she felt the change—tiny at first, a loosening through Harper's back, the way her shoulders dropped a fraction. Her chin came to rest near Graves' collarbone, tentative, as if she were testing whether the contact would turn into something else. Her hands lifted, hovered, then settled in a light hold against Graves' sides.
A moment later the trembling started. Small at first, little shivers that ran through her frame, then stronger, building until Graves could feel the shake of it under her arms. Wet warmth soaked into the cotton at her shoulder where Harper's face pressed in. No sound at first, just air pulled in and let out in uneven pulls, then a broken noise forced its way out of her, like something cracked open that had been welded shut since she'd arrived in this building.
Graves tightened her hold just enough to keep her anchored. It hit her then that this might be the first time anyone had laid hands on Harper in this place without aiming to restrain, hurt, or move her like cargo.
She lifted her gaze over Harper's shoulder to the doorway. Brock stood there, posture still as ever, but there was a strain in his face that didn't come from a fight. His mouth was a hard line, eyes fixed on the two of them, and he looked like he didn't quite know where to put any of it.
Graves held his stare for a moment, then looked back down and eased her hand up to rub once between Harper's shoulder blades.
"You're gonna be okay," she murmured into her hair, steady and certain for both their sakes. "You hear me? You're still here. You're gonna be okay."
Harper's hands tightened, clutching at the back of Graves' coat like she was afraid someone might pull her away. Her breath hitched against Graves' shoulder, warm and damp, and for a second it felt like the whole room narrowed to that fragile hold.
"Okay," she whispered. The word scraped out small and raw, barely there, but it was an answer.
Graves closed her eyes for a moment and let her stay there, one arm firm around her shoulders, the other steady at her back, holding the pieces in place for as long as she could.