The room stayed quiet longer than it should have.
Not the clean, calm quiet of recovery—but the fragile kind that felt like a held breath. Evan lay still now, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven pulls. The foam at his mouth had slowed, thick bubbles clinging to his lips and chin like something reluctant to let go.
Sharon stood at the foot of the bed, hands folded together so tightly her fingers ached. She didn't wipe her face. Didn't move. If she moved, she might fall apart.
The monitors told a story none of them wanted to hear.
Heart rate irregular. Oxygen dipping. Blood pressure unstable.
"He's crashing," Nguyen said softly.
Patel nodded. "Multi-system failure. It's accelerating."
Reyes wiped her face with the heel of her hand. "He's just a kid."
McAllister checked the restraints again, not because they needed tightening—but because he needed something to do. "When he's lucid, it's shorter every time."
Sharon's eyes stayed on Evan.
When he had smiled.
When he had said okay.
That was going to haunt her for the rest of her life.
"Start the blood draw," Sharon said quietly. "While we still can."
Nguyen hesitated. "He's barely stable."
"I know," Sharon replied. "That's why."
They moved carefully now, like the room itself might break if they rushed. Nguyen prepped the draw while Patel labeled fresh vials, his handwriting tight and precise despite the tremor in his hands.
Evan didn't stir as the needle slid into his vein.
Dark blood filled the tube—too dark, Sharon noticed. Thicker than it should have been. Almost sluggish, like it didn't want to flow.
Nguyen frowned. "Viscosity's off."
Patel leaned closer. "Look at the clotting."
The blood separated unnaturally fast, forming stringy strands that clung to the sides of the vial.
McAllister swallowed. "It's not just infected. It's… changing."
Nguyen capped the vial quickly. "We need microscopy as soon as we can power it."
"And isolate everything," Sharon said. "Blood, saliva, CSF, tissue samples—hair, nails, skin."
Reyes looked up sharply. "Hair and nails?"
"Yes," Sharon said. "He scratched the rails earlier. If it's shedding at the follicle level—"
"—then contact alone could be enough," Patel finished grimly.
The weight of that landed hard.
That meant no one was safe.
Not really.
Evan shifted again, a small sound leaving his throat—half sigh, half whimper.
Sharon stepped forward instinctively, resting a hand lightly on his arm despite the risk.
His skin was burning.
"Sharon," McAllister warned gently.
"I know," she said. "I know."
Evan's lips moved.
She leaned down without thinking.
"Mama?" he whispered.
Her heart cracked open.
"Yes," she said, voice barely holding. "I'm here."
"Did I do bad?" he asked.
Tears spilled freely now. Sharon shook her head. "No. You were very brave."
His brow furrowed faintly. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone."
"I know," she whispered. "None of this is your fault."
He breathed out slowly, like the effort cost him something precious.
"Tell my sister… I'm sorry I yelled."
Sharon pressed her lips together hard enough to hurt. "I will."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
That seemed to satisfy him.
Evan's eyes drifted closed again, lashes resting against flushed cheeks. His breathing slowed further, each rise of his chest smaller than the last.
The monitor's rhythm faltered.
Beep… beep... beep…
Nguyen's voice shook. "Heart rate's dropping."
Patel stepped closer. "Sharon—"
"No," Sharon said softly. "Not yet."
They watched.
Not as doctors now.
But as witnesses.
Evan's chest hitched once.
Twice.
Then stilled.
The monitor screamed.
A sharp, relentless tone that sliced through the room and echoed faintly down the hallway.
Outside, something answered.
A moan—long, hungry, and close.
Daniels cursed under his breath and moved to the door, pressing his weight against it as movement stirred beyond.
Inside the room, Sharon reached up and silenced the alarm.
The sudden quiet felt obscene.
Nguyen checked for a pulse anyway, tears streaming unchecked now. She shook her head once.
"He's gone."
No one spoke.
Sharon rested her hand over Evan's heart, feeling nothing beneath her palm.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "You deserved better than this."
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Sharon straightened.
Her face had changed.
The softness was gone.
The grief was still there—but it had hardened into something sharper.
"Time of death," she said evenly. "Mark it."
Nguyen swallowed and wrote it down.
Sharon turned to the others. "We proceed as agreed. Limited scope. No unnecessary damage. We learn what we can—because we owe him that."
Reyes nodded shakily. "I'll stay."
"So will I," McAllister said.
Patel exhaled slowly. "Let's do this right."
Outside the door, the moaning grew louder.
Troy's voice rose somewhere down the hall—angry, frantic, feeding the fear like gasoline on flame.
Sharon ignored it.
She looked down at the boy on the bed one last time.
"Thank you," she whispered—not for the data, not for the answers—but for the truth he had given them with his last breath.
Then she pulled on her gloves.
And crossed the final line.
Because Evan was gone.
And whatever had killed him was not.