Montrary Soul never slept. The ER bled chaos into every hallway, and the drama oozed through the cracks like infection.
Donna G walked into the morning shift with two hours of sleep, a cup of burnt coffee, and a temper sharper than the scalpel in her pocket. She didn't bother with greetings. This place didn't deserve "good mornings."
The first call came before she even clocked in.
"Dr. G!" a nurse shouted down the hall. "Bed three's coding!"
Donna tossed the coffee in the trash and sprinted. Bed three: a half-metal, half-human hybrid, chest cavity smoking like an overworked engine. A young surgeon—Dr. Reyes, all slick hair and arrogance—was already there, barking orders.
"Charge to 300," he snapped at the nurse.
Donna shoved him aside before the nurse could move. "Don't fry him, dumbass. His heart's wired like a generator." She grabbed the paddles, adjusted the voltage on instinct, and pressed them down. The patient jolted, coughed, and the monitor beeped steady.
Reyes glared. "I had it under control."
Donna smirked. "Sure you did. That's why you were about to kill him." She tossed the paddles onto the tray. "Try again when you've got a brain."
The interns snickered. Reyes' face flushed red.
By noon, gossip was thicker than the smell of bleach.
Donna heard it in the cafeteria: Reyes had been spotted having lunch with Garren Vox, one of the hospital's biggest alien donors. Word was, Vox was throwing money at a "new initiative" and Reyes was his golden boy.
"Man really thinks he's gonna take Donna's chair," a nurse whispered, giggling.
"Let him try," another said. "She'll eat him alive."
Donna didn't laugh. Money made people bold, and bold people got sloppy. If Reyes thought he could buy his way past her, she'd burn his little empire to ash before it even sprouted.
Later, in the staff lounge, she cornered Reyes.
"You making deals with Vox now?" she asked, voice low, eyes sharp.
Reyes smirked. "It's called ambition. You should try it sometime."
Donna stepped closer, so close her breath warmed his cheek. "Ambition without brains is just suicide with extra paperwork. Remember that before you sell this hospital to the highest bidder."
His smirk faltered. Donna left him there, his ego crumbling like a cheap wall.
The day dragged on. A nurse got caught stealing painkillers from the med cart. Two interns were busted hooking up in the stairwell instead of responding to a code blue. Donna kept order with threats and glares, her voice the whip that cracked through the mess.
But underneath it all, she felt it—the shift. Like something rotten crawling under the floorboards.
At 6 p.m., she passed the janitor in the east wing. He was mopping slow, head down, but his eyes flicked up the second she walked by.
"Evening, Doc," he said casually.
She didn't slow. "You know my name?"
He smiled faintly. "Everyone knows the famous Donna G."
She stopped, turned. His tone wasn't admiration—it was familiarity. Too familiar.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Janitor," he said simply. Then went back to mopping.
Her eyes narrowed. No one brushed her off like that. Not here.
By the time she hit her office, her head pounded. She needed five minutes of silence, a place where no one was dying or screwing in a closet. She pushed the door open—then froze.
Her desk wasn't empty.
A file sat neatly in the center, thick manila, stamped with a red insignia she hadn't seen in years. Three letters burned into the corner: C.I.A.
Her hand hovered before she touched it. Inside: photos, reports, surgical notes that weren't hers. Pages and pages of operations tied to her old life. At the top, her codename stamped in bold black ink.
Agent Ghost.
Her throat tightened. She slammed the file shut, shoving it into the bottom drawer, locking it fast.
A knock rattled her door.
"Dr. G?" It was a nurse. "We've got a new intake. Car crash victim. Bad one."
Donna stood, mask back on, voice steady. "On my way."
She left the office like nothing was wrong, but her heart was a war drum in her chest. Someone had been in her space. Someone knew exactly who she was.
The crash victim was waiting in Trauma One. Young, human, bloodied but alive. Donna snapped gloves on, forcing her focus back where it belonged.
But as she leaned over the patient, she felt eyes on her.
In the corner of the room, mop in hand, the janitor watched quietly.
Donna's grip tightened on the scalpel.
She worked fast, stitching, ordering nurses around, stabilizing the patient. When it was done, she stripped her gloves off and turned—but the corner was empty. The janitor was gone.
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
By the time night fell, Montrary Soul was calmer. The halls buzzed with low chatter, the worst of the storm passed. But Donna knew peace here was never real.
She stepped into the stairwell, her one place of quiet. Leaned against the wall, staring at her phone. No new texts. Just that blocked number lingering in her call log, waiting.
Her hand shook, just once. She clenched it into a fist.
If the CIA wanted her, they'd have to tear this hospital apart to take her.
And Donna G would make sure they bled for every brick.