What truly separates the living from the dead? Is it the final exhale, the stilling of a heartbeat, or the silence that follows? Perhaps it is not the body at all, but the line we cannot touch—a boundary invisible to the eye, yet impossible to cross without consequence.
We call it life. We call it death. But it is neither. It is a threshold.
Sebastian's eyelids fluttered, heavy and uncooperative. The world was a blur of white and bright lines, the rhythmic beep of a monitor slicing through the fog of his mind.
"…stable… pulse elevated… sedation wearing off…"
Words drifted past him like fragments of glass. A sharp smell—sterile, bitter—burned his nostrils, and for a moment he tried to move, only for a tight, unfamiliar weight to pin his arms.
"…pressure's high… airway clear… let's keep him calm…"
Faces leaned over him, masks hiding their expressions. He caught snippets of phrases: numbers, instruments, instructions—but none made sense, none connected to him fully.
"BP's dropping—very weak pulse… we need fluids, stat," a doctor barked. The words cut through the clamor of monitors and footsteps.
The gurney screeched to a halt outside a room. Another voice: "Monitor! We need oxygen, rapid. His heart—arrhythmia, failing. Prepare defibrillator, just in case."
Seb's ears caught fragments, scattered like shards: electrolytes, hypoglycemia… IV, saline… potassium low… kidney function…
They moved him onto the bed. One doctor placed the stethoscope against his chest, murmuring, "Heart's barely there… weak… shallow… keep him stable."
Hands moved fast—IV lines, oxygen mask, cold metal on frail skin. Another voice: "Slow—do not overload. Refeeding too fast… is fatal."
Seb only caught pieces, like listening through water: pressure dropping… blood gas off… arrhythmia… monitor closely…
A nurse muttered something else—he found had to understand—but the tone made his stomach twist: we've never had a patient this far gone… could go any second…
Who's the patient. He thought.
The doctors worked with sharp precision, voices clipped, urgent, almost robotic. Seb watched shadows of motion—hands squeezing bulbs, adjusting knobs, whispering numbers—but much of it was noise. Only certain phrases punched through: heart failing, organs shutting down, stabilize…
His eyes fluttered shut.
.....
A day later, 2 p.m.
Yellow tape stretched across the street and on the gates, flapping in the wind. Patrol cars sat at angles, some with their lights off but doors open, others dousing the area in blue and red, blocking any approach. Officers moved methodically, marking evidence and taking photos.
"Perimeter secured," a man in uniform said, passing the ticket gate. A follow-up officer jogged past, heading to black vans packed across from the area. "All clear. No one inside," he added a beat later.
The man dressed like a civilian nodded and waved him away.
At the gate, a uniformed officer stood, hands pressed against the tape, arguing fervently with a woman behind the line. The street was filled with people taking pictures, the air drowned by the low murmur of radios and the clicking of cameras.
"Ma'am, this area is off-limits. You are not authorized inside—for your safety and the safety of others, you need to stay back."
"But I'm part of—" she began.
Another officer stepped forward, interrupting her and speaking to the one keeping her back. "Keep it tight." He turned to her, face stern. "No civilians, no press. Not a single person, so please leave. Thank you."
The woman tried to argue in response, but the officer walked away, followed by a number of men escorting her off.
At that moment, a small fleet of vehicles rolled up, cutting through the crowded street. The first two were unmarked sedans—sleek, black, and efficient. Subtle decals on the doors read City Enforcement, almost easy to miss unless you knew what to look for.
The third was different. Larger, imposing, shouting rich get out of my way, a dark armored SUV with chrome accents and flashing blue-and-red lights tucked discreetly in the grille. Its license plate read OPERATIONS COMMAND, and the sheer presence of it made the other vehicles seem almost pedestrian by comparison.
Together, the three cars formed a tight convoy, moving like a single organism toward the barricaded street, drawing every eye.
The first vehicle opened up to reveal two seated men approaching from both sides. They approached the officer at the tape.
"Hold up. Who are you? This is a Priority 2 investigation for our precinct. You can't just—"
Flashing ID, the man spoke: "Major Division, City Police. We are taking over this investigation." He then held up a folder of preliminary reports.
"We've reviewed the incident report, victim conditions, and historical data for this location. This case falls under citywide high-priority oversight and will now be under our care."
"Um—" the officer squinted at the document, then looked at the vehicles that came with them.
"We've already assigned our lead detective, Lieutenant AR—sorry, Lieutenant Anthony Ravenshall—and he's managing all follow-ups. You'll have to speak with him first." He led them to the Lieutenant then walked away
"You are the Lieutenant," he nodded in response muttering "quite the tall fellow"
The man ignored his comment and began explaining his reason for being here
"The case has certain complexities so the department has determined that the severity and historical context require my division to oversee the investigation from here on."
"I see. And what evidence proves this?"
The big guy handed over several documents, which Ravenshall took, reading over them. After a few moments, he smiled at the officer speaking.
"I don't see why you need to take over."
The man nodded calmly but firmly his brow furrowing. "I understand your concern. You've done excellent work securing the scene, but this case falls under the Special Bureau's citywide high-priority oversight. That designation is not arbitrary—it requires resources, coordination, and authority beyond a single precinct."
"These preliminary findings will be preserved exactly as they are, but all further interviews and processing will now go through my team. Your officers will assist, under our supervision."
He continued still smiling, though he internally he was cursing, He wasn't at all happy with the arrangement. "You've said that already, but resources, single precincts… come on they are two precincts already involved. And—"
"With all due respect, sir… Our team will be taking over, I will have to ask you to step aside."
"Unfortunately I don't feel like it" Anthony responded
"Read this please."
Anthony glanced at it. The header read: Office of the Police Commissioner – Special Bureau Directive. Bold letters near the top: All investigations designated as Citywide High-Priority Oversight fall under the command of Major Division Special Bureau.
"Lieutenant Ravenshall… refer to me only as instructed in this document. This directive comes directly from the Commissioner. Any further debate about authority will have to go through him."
Internally, he might feel resentment at being side-lined, but he had to swallow it—there was no option. Any dispute would only cause trouble.
"Copy that," he said finally, voice tight but compliant. "Though you should have given this earlier. It would have saved a lot of time."
He then turned, voice bellowing:
"Team—listen up. Major Division's taking over. From here on, we assist their unit. No independent action, no deviations. Keep the perimeter secure, preserve evidence, and follow their lead on interviews and processing. Copy that?"
The team murmured acknowledgment.
"Good. Split into pairs—one stays with the scene, one shadows the Special Bureau officers. Maintain communication at all times! I want updates, not opinions! NOW MOVE!"
He then turned to the officer and outstretched a hand for a shake. The man accepted, adding respectfully:
"I appreciate your cooperation. I'm not here to undermine your efforts. As you are aware, further dispute over control at this stage will only slow down the investigation and create risk."
"Acknowledged," Ravenshall answered. They then split the tape, letting the vehicles drive in.
--------------
Inside the third vehicle, two officially dressed individuals sat down, speaking to each other.
"I wonder what is taking so long," a lady in a pencil-black skirt said—pretty, poised, with sharp features that matched her no-nonsense demeanor.
"Indeed, they are," a young man, his face betraying youthful inexperience, agreed. "However, it isn't their fault, after all. We are being rude—taking their case without concrete evidence or reason and slapping them with authority."
"Being rude?" she snorted derisively. "If they only knew what was really happening, I bet they'd beg us to take over and run to their mothers' basements in fright."
The man smiled, nodding in agreement.
"Let's hope further contamination hasn't occurred...else." she sneered
"Further? You also think the five escapees are contaminated?" he asked.
"They probably are. This place literally has an ORANGE Designation: Level A, Grade 2. does it get any worse"
"HaHahaha, indeed it doesn't"
"However" he added
"previously, it wasn't even up to a green designation. Maybe the collapse had something to do with it… though why it only acted now is unknown."
The car moved into the secured zone, then parked parallel to the others.
.