CHAPTER 24: THE AFTERMATH
The hospital room was white and quiet.
They'd checked me over. No injuries. Vitals elevated but normal for someone coming down from extreme stress. They'd given me something for the shaking—mild sedative—and left me to rest.
I couldn't rest.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the gun pointed at my chest. Dennis's cold stare. The terrified faces of the hostages.
My phone sat on the bedside table. Forty-three missed calls. Sixty-two texts. Voicemails from numbers I didn't recognize.
I ignored all of it. Until one number appeared.
Logan.
I answered.
"Roman." His voice was gruff. "Report."
"Everyone's safe. No casualties. Three men in custody. Situation resolved."
Silence on the line. Then: "You handled it."
"I talked them down. It was—"
"You handled it," Logan repeated. Firmer. "Well done."
Two words I'd never heard from him. Well done.
"Thanks," I managed.
"Come back when you're cleared. We'll debrief."
He hung up.
I stared at the phone. Logan Roy had just expressed approval. Direct, unambiguous approval.
The phone rang again. Gerri.
I answered. "Hey."
"Are you actually okay?" Her voice was tight. Controlled but barely. "The news is saying hostage situation, armed standoff, Roy family member involved. Are you hurt?"
"No. I'm fine. Well, not fine. But not hurt."
"Roman." Softer. "What happened?"
I told her. The short version. Hostages, guns, talking them down, Dennis's daughter, the surrender.
She listened without interrupting. When I finished:
"You could have died."
"I know."
"You could have—" She stopped. Breathed. "I'm glad you didn't."
"Me too."
"When are you coming back?"
"Tomorrow, probably. They want to do a debrief. Make sure I'm not in shock."
"Are you in shock?"
"Probably."
A sound that might've been a laugh or a sob. "I'll be there when you get back. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Roman?"
"Yeah?"
"You did well. Whatever happens next, remember that. You did well."
We talked for a few more minutes. Logistics. When I'd fly back. Where I'd go first.
When she hung up, I felt more grounded. Less adrift.
But the fear was still there. Under everything.
The police came at eight PM. Two detectives. Professional, thorough.
They wanted my statement about the hostage situation. Timeline. What was said. Who did what.
I told them. Carefully. Emphasizing the de-escalation. The listening. The genuine grievances the men had.
"You were remarkably calm," one detective noted. "For someone held at gunpoint."
"I didn't feel calm."
"You talked three armed men into surrendering peacefully. That's more than most negotiators could manage."
"I just listened to them."
They exchanged glances. Made notes.
"For the record," the other detective said. "The hostages we interviewed all said the same thing. You kept people calm. Gave water to the panicking ones. Talked the men down. Probably saved lives."
I didn't know what to say to that.
They finished the interview. Thanked me. Left.
I was alone again.
Midnight.
The hospital was quiet. Only night staff moving through hallways. Machines beeping. Distant voices.
I lay in the dark and felt everything I'd been holding start to crack.
Trauma Lock had released hours ago. All the fear it had contained came flooding back. Not just today's terror but Roman's entire childhood. Every moment of helplessness. Every cage. Every time Logan's hand came down and there was nowhere to run.
The body remembered even if the transmigrator didn't.
I started shaking again. Worse than before. Couldn't stop it. Sweat soaked through the hospital gown. My heart raced. Breathing too fast. Too shallow.
Panic attack. Full-blown. The body presenting its trauma bill with interest.
A nurse came in—night shift, older woman with tired kind eyes. She took one look at me and sat down in the chair beside the bed.
Didn't speak. Didn't try to fix it. Just sat there. Present. Witnessing.
She brought me juice in a small cup. Helped me drink it with shaking hands.
Still didn't speak.
After a while, the shaking slowed. The breathing evened out. The panic receded.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"You're not the first person I've sat with like this," she said quietly. "Won't be the last. Trauma does that. Makes you shake when it's over. When it's finally safe to fall apart."
"I thought I handled it. I thought I was okay."
"You did handle it. And you will be okay. But handling doesn't mean not feeling it after." She stood. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be complicated."
She left.
I lay there in the dark.
Thought about everything that had happened. Not just today but the last seven weeks. Since I'd woken up in Roman Roy's body. Since I'd caught Logan mid-stroke. Since I'd started building alliances and gathering leverage and playing a game I barely understood.
Today I'd used three different powers. Trauma Lock to stay functional. Empathy Engine to read Dennis's pain. Silver Tongue to persuade them all down from violence.
Today I'd looked down the barrel of a gun and talked three desperate men into surrendering.
Today I'd saved everyone. Including myself.
And now, alone in a hospital room at midnight, I finally let myself feel how terrified I'd been.
The tears came. Quiet. Exhausted.
I let them.
Tomorrow I'd go back to New York. Face the family. Deal with the new perception of Roman Roy as the one who stayed calm under fire.
But tonight, I was just a person who'd survived something impossible. And that was enough.
Morning came with weak Pennsylvania sunlight through the hospital window.
I showered in the tiny bathroom. Dressed in the clothes they'd brought from my room at the facility. Looked at myself in the mirror.
Same face. Roman's face. But something in the eyes was different. Harder. Older.
I'd survived the worst thing that could happen to Roman Roy. The thing that would have broken original Roman completely.
And I'd done it. Stayed functional. Saved lives. Came out the other side.
A doctor cleared me. Physically fine. Recommended follow-up for the psychological trauma but no medical reason to keep me.
The facility coordinator—Sarah, who'd checked me in two days ago—drove me to the airport personally.
"You were incredible," she said. "Everyone's saying so. You saved lives."
"I just talked to them."
"Most people freeze when there's a gun pointed at them. You negotiated." She glanced over. "That's not nothing."
At the airport, she handed me a bag. "Your things from the facility. And this." An envelope.
Inside: Letters. From the other hostages. Thank you notes. Emily's was longest—talking about how I'd kept everyone calm. Mark's was shorter but no less sincere.
I read them on the plane. Each one a small weight of responsibility and gratitude.
The plane took off. Pennsylvania receding below.
I looked out the window. Thought about Marcus and his family. Jerry and his daughter. Dennis and the daughter who'd never become a teacher.
Real people. Real pain. Real consequences of corporate decisions made in Manhattan boardrooms.
I'd saved them today. Prevented violence. Helped end something terrible.
But the system that created it—the broken promises, the pharmaceutical profits, the casual destruction of working families—that was still there. Still grinding. Still hurting people.
One crisis resolved. Hundreds more waiting.
The wounded king, returning to the empire.
Different now. Tested. Proven.
Ready for whatever came next.
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