For a while, there was nothing.
No pain.
No smoke.
No fire.
Just a dark, drowning silence where Emily floated, suspended between the world she'd been ripped from and the one she was too broken to return to.her body layed out across the cold floor broken and twisted her breathing shallow .
Then—
A sound pierced the void.
At first it was distant. A low, rising whine weaving through the dark like a thread of light.
WEE-OOO… WEE-OOO…
Sirens.
Louder.
Closer.
Sharper.
Red and blue light bled into the edges of the night, flashing against smoke, metal, and shattered glass. Tires screeched against the asphalt, grinding to a halt. Doors slammed. Boots hit the ground.
Voices cut through the smoke.
"Over here—God, it's a mess—"
"Car's fully involved, we need suppression now!"
"I've got movement! Someone's down on the road—two victims. Man, it's bad—g—get over here ASAP!"
Emily felt something cold on her cheek. Wind? Rain? No—gloves. Hands. Someone turning her gently onto her back.
"Pulse is weak but present," a paramedic said, voice tight. "She's breathing shallow. Massive trauma, possible internal bleeding—"
A light snapped on above her, white and searing through her closed eyelids.
"Stay with me. Hey—can you hear me?"
A thumb brushed her jawline. "Open your eyes if you can."
Emily tried. The effort sent a faint shock of pain rippling through her body, dragging her upward—toward consciousness, toward agony.
Her eyelids twitched.
That was all she managed.
"Okay, good response. Let's get her stabilized. C-collar, oxygen—slow and steady."
The world around her vibrated with chaos.
Firefighters surged past, dragging heavy hoses toward the burning wreck. Water blasted out in a violent roar, steam erupting as the flames fought back.
"Watch the debris! Keep clear of the fuel spill!"
"We need another line on the passenger side—move, move!"
Police lights strobed across the scene, painting everything in frantic color. Officers shouted orders, securing the area, pushing back from the danger zone.
"Drunk driver's vehicle is fully engulfed—do not approach!"
"Do we have IDs? Anyone conscious?"
"Start marking evidence—Jesus…"
We found ID for an Emily holloway and a Lucy vale. One matches the girl .
Another voice cut sharply through the night, panicked and urgent.
"I've got another body!"
"Okay so Emily Holloway and Lucy vine " a officer calls out
Emily's heart didn't react—she was too lost in the fog—but somewhere deep in her, something twisted.
Lucy.
The paramedic beside Emily stiffened. "Where's the second victim?"
"Up the road, twenty feet. She's not moving."
Emily's fingers twitched weakly at the name she didn't yet hear but felt.
More footsteps. A medic rushing past her, boots crunching on broken glass.
"Checking for vitals—"
A pause. Too long.
"…No pulse."
Emily made a faint noise—so small it barely existed—something like a breath catching.
The medic spoke again, voice lower this time. "We… we need to confirm. Starting compressions."
Hands pressed against Lucy's chest. Emily didn't see it, but she felt the desperate rhythm echo inside her own broken ribs.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
"Come on… come on…"
"Charging—clear!"
A snap of electricity cracked the air.
Emily's body jolted at the sound—not from the shock, but from the memory of Lucy's frail body crashing to the ground.
Another pause.
Another silence.
Then:
"…No response."
The words threaded through the air like a ghost.
Emily's breath hitched, barely.
The medics didn't stop—not yet. They worked frantically, fiercely, refusing to let the night take what little remained.
But she was gone…
After a slow exhale, he said gently, "Time of death, 10:47," and gave the signal.
No sirens. No shouting. No rush.
Just a moment of quiet acknowledgment.
But even after pronouncing, they didn't simply walk away.
One medic stepped forward with a long spine board.
"Let's get her ready for transport."
They worked slowly, deliberately. Their movements were no longer urgent but deeply respectful.
One medic supported her head with both hands, keeping her aligned.
"On my count… one, two, three."
They lifted her with soft steadiness, careful not to let her limbs fall awkwardly.
They guided her onto the board, positioning her as if she could still feel discomfort. A cervical collar was gently fastened around her neck—not because she needed spinal protection anymore, but because they treated her exactly as they would the living—dignity unbroken.
Wide, soft restraint straps were wrapped around her torso and legs to secure her for transport. They tightened them just enough to keep her stable, never harsh, never careless.
Then one medic stepped away, retrieved a thick navy-blue blanket from the trauma kit, and returned slowly.
He paused a moment beside her.
Then he unfolded the blanket and spread it over Lucy, smoothing it from her shoulders down to her ankles.
Tucking the sides in.
Making sure she was covered, warm in appearance, peaceful.
The youngest medic—a woman with shaking hands—adjusted a strand of Lucy's hair that had fallen over her cheek.
"She… so young ," she whispered.
The stretcher was rolled into place beside them. They lifted Lucy with the same coordinated care they would give any patient. The wheels locked. The board secured.
The blanket didn't shift.
"Let's take her to the ambulance," the lead medic said softly.
"No rush."
There was no panic now.
Only quiet.
Only respect.
They walked with her, steady and solemn, guiding the stretcher through the chaos of flashing lights and smoke as though escorting her out of the night with dignity intact.
Back over the road, Emily lay still.
Her vision wavered, life slowly drifting away. Red and blue lights blurred into a spinning halo, and the shouting around her seemed to stretch and distort. Her chest heaved—shallow, ragged. The taste of copper—blood?—filled her mouth.
"Emily, focus on my voice, okay?" the paramedic said with urgency as he assessed her state.
Her limbs grew impossibly heavy. The paramedic's voice, once a tether, now sounded distant, muffled, underwater.
"Emily? Shit—Emily, stay with me! Eyes open—focus on my voice!"
She tried. Tried to respond. Tried to lift her hand. But it didn't obey. Her fingers twitched, then curled uselessly into her palm.
A wave of heat slammed through her. Then cold. Then heat again. The world buckled and tilted, a rollercoaster she couldn't stop.
"Pulse is dropping—she's going into shock!"
The words sliced through her fog like a whip. Panic clawed at her chest, twisting with the pain. Her heart raced, then faltered. Sweat slicked her skin; her teeth chattered uncontrollably.
She tried to speak. Nothing. Only a faint, gurgling rasp escaped her throat.
Her vision fractured violently. Images warped and multiplied, a kaleidoscope of sirens, flames, and shouting she could no longer anchor to.
The paramedic's gloved hands reached for her shoulders, grounding her, pressing firmly.
"We've got you, Emily! You're not alone!"
Then her body betrayed her completely.
A sudden, violent jolt ripped through her muscles. Her arms flailed uncontrollably. Her legs kicked, striking at the jagged asphalt. Her teeth clenched painfully, grinding together. Her eyes rolled back for a fraction of a second. Her chest heaved erratically.
"Seizing—clear the area! Protect her head!"
Boots scrambled. Two paramedics slid to either side, slipping a folded blanket under her head to cushion it against concrete and debris. Another held her legs, gently restraining them to prevent injury. Every movement was careful but firm.
One medic snatched the suction catheter from the trauma pack, sliding it into her mouth to clear saliva and blood, ensuring she wouldn't aspirate. The hiss of suction filled Emily's ears, drowning out everything else for a second.
Another grabbed the portable oxygen mask, pressing it over her nose and mouth. Elastic straps were adjusted quickly, delivering a high flow—10 liters per minute. The warm oxygen hissed against her trembling lips as she gasped shallowly.
The paramedic monitoring her pulse cried out, "Irregular heartbeat! BP dropping further—80 over 50!"
Another IV line was prepped and inserted into her forearm, clamped in place, then connected to a bag of normal saline hung on a collapsible pole. Gravity pulled the fluid in while her muscles jerked uncontrollably.
Pads were clipped to her chest in case of sudden cardiac arrest, though the device remained in monitoring mode for now. One medic held a stethoscope against her back, listening to her shallow lung sounds while another stabilized her C-collar.
Her body continued to convulse. Every movement fractured her ribs, sent shocks of pain through her broken frame. The paramedics spoke in short, rhythmic phrases to anchor her:
"Emily! Breathe with me! In… out… steady… stay with me!"
Hands pressed gently on her limbs, restraining without crushing, guiding the violent energy safely into space. Another medic brushed damp hair from her forehead and dabbed cool saline onto her skin to prevent overheating.
Minutes stretched like hours. Emily's mind felt liquid, spilling over the edges of her skull. Colors, sounds, sensations fused into a chaotic symphony. And then—slowly—the seizure's violence ebbed.
Her body sagged in exhausted surrender, trembling. Breaths came in ragged, shallow waves. The oxygen hissed steadily. IV fluids dripped, stabilizing her circulation. Monitors beeped—erratically but alive.
After what felt like an eternity for Emily, the paramedics continued to move fast—half running, half kneeling—working around her with urgent precision.
Her seizure had stopped, but her body still trembled in the aftermath, small twitching pulses echoing through her muscles. The portable monitor at her side beeped irregularly, its screen splashed with unstable vitals.
"Seizure lasted approximately forty seconds," the lead medic said, breathing hard as he tightened the straps on her oxygen mask. "Post-ictal, shock symptoms present—BP's climbing back but still low."
"Chest injuries confirmed. Breathing shallow, protective. Oxygen sat's improving with high-flow O₂."
Another medic adjusted the IV bag, raising it slightly. "She lost a lot of perfusion during that episode. Keep the fluids running wide open. We need her pressure up before we move."
The youngest medic glanced at Emily's face—pale, damp, eyes fluttering half-open.
"She's responding to stimuli, but barely."
"She's strong… she's fighting… Okay. Let's get her packaged. On three—lift."
Two medics slid their arms beneath her shoulders and hips. Another supported her head and maintained the C-spine collar. A backboard was angled beside her.
"One… two… three."
They lifted her with incredible care, sliding her onto the board in one smooth motion. Emily felt the shift—the jolt of pain, the cold hardness of the board, the straps pulling snug across her chest and hips. Each breath rattled against the plastic oxygen mask.
A blanket was laid over her, tucked carefully around her trembling arms.
"Let's move her," the lead medic said. "Ambulance Two is prepped."
They began rolling her toward the waiting unit, wheels rattling over the broken glass and debris of the crash site.
As they passed Lucy's stretcher—parked inside the first ambulance—Emily's fading consciousness snagged on a shape her mind recognized even through the haze.
Lucy.
Covered in the navy blanket.
Still.
Silent.
Unmoving.
And her hand—small, pale, limp—had slipped out from beneath the blanket, dangling over the edge of the stretcher.
Emily's arm twitched.
At first it was barely anything.
Just a tremor.
But then, with what little strength she had left, her hand lifted an inch… then two… then hovered shakily toward Lucy's.
"It's okay, darling," a female paramedic said softly, holding onto Emily's hand—her other hand catching the tear falling down Emily's icy cheek.