“Yes—yes,” he said quickly. “I’m trained.”
“Then follow the prompts,” I told him, and went back to work. He tore the pads free, fumbling once before pressing them onto the man’s bare chest exactly where the diagrams showed.
“Clear,” he said, voice trembling.
I pulled my hands back immediately. The machine analyzed, its mechanical calm grating against the tight coil in my chest.
Shock advised.
“Clear,” he repeated, louder this time, and pressed the button. The man’s body jerked once, muscles locking, then went limp again.
I was back on his chest before the AED finished speaking, compressions resuming without pause. The employee fitted a pocket mask to the guy simply to protect himself, and we became a team.
Thirty compressions. Two breaths.
Another analysis.
Another shock.
My arms burned. My shoulders screamed. Sweat soaked through my shirt. I didn’t care.
Thirty-two.
And then—
A cough. He hadn't needed a Guedel airway.
Weak. Wet. But real.
I froze for half a second, then leaned closer, watching. His chest moved again—on its own this time. Shallow. Uneven. “I’ve got spontaneous respirations,” I said, my voice rough. “He’s breathing.” The hotel employee let out a shaky breath beside me, relief written all over his face.
I sat back on my heels, hands trembling hard enough I had to curl them into fists, and stayed there—watching the man breathe—until the sound of sirens finally cut through the ballroom.
Paramedics burst through the crowd, equipment clattering, radios live. I moved aside automatically, letting them take over, watching as they worked with the kind of efficiency that came from doing this every day.
Mark gripped my shoulder and pulled me to my feet. "You did good, Doc."
"Cinder," I corrected absently, still staring at the man's chest rising and falling. "Not a doctor."
"Could've fooled me."
The paramedics loaded the man onto a gurney, his wife clutching his hand, tears streaming down her face. She looked at me as they passed, mouthing something I couldn't hear over the noise.
And then I heard it again. The camera shutter. Closer this time.
I turned.
A photographer stood five feet away, lens trained directly on me, snapping shot after shot like I was a goddamn spectacle. Behind him, another one. And another. All of them crowding in, pushing past hotel staff who were trying—ineffectively—to keep them back.
My stomach dropped.
I watched as Taranis moved. Max appeared at his shoulder, and Cole materialized from somewhere behind me, the three of them forming a wall between the cameras and where I stood.
"Out," Taranis said to them. Not loud. Not threatening. Just absolute.
The photographers argued—of course they did—but Taranis stepped closer to the nearest one, and something in his expression made the man lower his camera. Not fear, exactly. Just the sudden, instinctive understanding that pushing further would be a mistake.
They left.