Dr. Adrian Cole's POV
Something is wrong with Celeste Thornfield's blood.
I stare at the lab results on my computer screen, my coffee getting cold beside me. The numbers don't make sense. They can't make sense.
I've been Celeste's doctor for five years. I know her blood type, her medical background, her DNA markers. I know everything about her body because I've treated her since we were both teens.
But these test results say I don't know her at all.
I pull up her file from six months ago. Blood type: A-negative. Rare, but consistent with all her earlier tests.
Now I look at the blood we drew this morning. Blood type: O-positive.
Blood types don't change. Ever. It's biologically impossible.
My hands shake as I run the test results again. Same answer. The woman in room 412 has totally different blood than the woman who checked into this hospital two days ago.
I grab my tablet and head down the hallway. It's past midnight. The maternity ward is quiet except for the soft beeping of monitors and rare baby cries.
Room 412. I knock softly, not wanting to wake the baby.
No answer.
I knock again. Still nothing.
Something cold settles in my stomach. I swipe my entry card and push open the door.
The room is empty.
The hospital bed is made. The cradle is gone. Celeste and baby Lily have disappeared.
"Jenny!" I call down the hall to the nurses' station. "Where's Mrs. Thornfield?"
Jenny looks up from her charts, confused. "Room 412? She should be sleeping. I checked on her an hour ago."
"Well, she's not there now. And neither is the baby."
Jenny's face goes white. She runs to her computer, pulling up security logs. "She didn't check out. There's no discharge papers. She just... left?"
"Pull up the security cameras," I say. My heart is racing now. "Find out where she went."
Jenny's fingers fly across the keys. We both lean in to watch the recording from the hallway camera.
At 11:47 PM, we see Celeste slip out of her room holding baby Lily. She's going fast, looking over her shoulder like she's afraid someone's following her. She goes for the stairwell instead of the elevator.
"Why would she take the stairs?" Jenny asks. "She just gave birth yesterday. She should barely be able to walk."
But that's not what catches my attention. What gets my attention is the way she moves.
Celeste Thornfield had surgery on her left knee two years ago. I was there. She's walked with a slight limp ever since—barely visible, but it's there.
The woman on this security video doesn't limp at all.
"Go back," I say. "Show me when she entered the room earlier today."
Jenny rewinds the tape. We watch Dominic Thornfield arrive at 4:30 PM. He stays for thirty minutes, leaves looking shaken.
But before that, at 2:15 PM, someone else enters the room.
A man in a doctor's coat. He's holding a black medical bag.
"Who is that?" I lean closer to the screen. "I don't recognize him."
"Neither do I," Jenny says. "And look—he's not wearing a hospital ID badge."
We watch as the man enters Celeste's room. He stays for exactly seven minutes. When he leaves, he's no longer carrying the black bag.
"Pull up the parking garage footage," I say. "See if we can track him."
Jenny changes cameras. We follow the mystery man through the hospital, down to the parking basement, and into a black sedan.
Jenny zooms in on the license plate, then runs it through the system.
Her face goes even pale. " Dr. Cole. This car is owned to Marcus Thornfield. Dominic's father. " My blood runs cold. " Marcus Thornfield is dying of cancer. He's not well enough to be walking around hospitals holding mysterious bags."
"Unless he's not as sick as everyone thinks," Jenny says quietly.
I think about the blood test results. About Celeste's changed blood type. About her walking without a limp. About the way she thanked nurses by name—something the old Celeste would never do.
"Pull up Celeste's medical records from the delivery," I say. "I want to see exactly what happened when she flatlined."
Jenny pulls up the file. We read through it together.
Celeste Thornfield went into cardiac arrest at 3:47 AM during birth. Her heart stopped for forty-three seconds. The medical team tried everything—chest compressions, defibrillator, emergency medicines.
Nothing worked.
Dr. Sarah Chen was about to call time of death when Celeste's heart suddenly restarted on its own. No medical reason. Just a sudden return of cardiac function.
"I've never seen that before," Jenny whispers. "Hearts don't just restart themselves."
"No," I agree. "They don't."
I scroll further down in the file. Then I see something that makes my stomach drop.
At 3:46 AM—one minute before Celeste flatlined—someone accessed her IV system remotely. They administered an unknown substance straight into her bloodstream.
The system marked it as "Dr. M. Thornfield, Emergency Authorization."
Marcus Thornfield put something into his daughter-in-law's IV one minute before her heart stopped.
"He killed her," I breathe. "Marcus Thornfield killed Celeste during delivery."
"But she's alive," Jenny protests. "She's walking around. She took her baby and left."
"That's what I thought too." I pull up another file on my tablet. "Until I saw this." It's a news story from three months ago. Barcelona, Spain. " Architect Eva Hart Dies in Tragic Car Accident."
The picture shows a young woman with brown hair and a bright smile. She looks nothing like Celeste Thornfield.
But when I zoom in on her eyes, I see something that makes my breath catch.
I've looked into those eyes before. This morning. In room 412.
"What are you saying?" Jenny asks. "That Eva Hart is somehow... what? Possessing Celeste's body?"
"I'm saying that the woman who walked out of this hospital tonight isn't Celeste Thornfield." I show her the blood test results. " Her blood type changed. Her DNA markers are different. Even her walking style changed. Everything about her is different."
"That's impossible."
"So is a heart restarting itself after forty-three seconds of death."
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
"Stop asking questions, Dr. Cole. Celeste's medical records are secret now. Forget what you saw tonight. Forget the blood tests. Forget everything. Or you'll end up like the real Celeste—dead and buried while someone else goes around wearing your face."
I show Jenny the message. Her hands are shaking.
"Someone's threatening you," she says. "Someone knows you're investigating."
Another text comes through. This time it's a picture.
It's me. From earlier tonight. Standing in my office, looking at Celeste's blood test results on my computer.
Someone was watching me. Someone photographed me investigating.
The final message appears: "Eva Hart is going to Pier 17 right now. She's bringing baby Lily into a trap. If you want to save them—if you want to know the truth about what really happened—meet me at the pier in twenty minutes. Come alone. Tell no one. Or the baby dies first."
I look at Jenny. "Call security. Lock down the hospital. No one else leaves tonight."
"Where are you going?" "Pier 17." I grab my coat. "Someone's using a newborn baby as bait. I'm not letting that happen."
"Dr. Cole, this is crazy. We should call the police."
"The message said no cops. If we engage them, the baby dies." I head for the door. "Just lock down the hospital. Keep everyone safe. I'll handle this."
I race through the parking garage to my car. My mind is spinning with impossible thoughts.
How did Eva Hart's soul end up in Celeste Thornfield's body? Who planned it? Why? And what do they want with baby Lily?
I start my car and pull out of the garage. Pier 17 is fifteen minutes away if I speed.
But as I leave the hospital grounds, I notice something in my rearview mirror.
A black car. Following me.
The same black car that Marcus Thornfield drove to the hospital earlier.
I press down harder on the gas pedal. The car speeds up too, staying right behind me.
My phone buzzes again. Another message.
"Good move, Doctor. But you should know—you're not the only one going to Pier 17 tonight. Dominic Thornfield is already there. Eva Hart is on her way. And Marcus Thornfield just left his death bed to join the party. Everyone's gathering on the same place. Everyone's looking for answers."
"But here's what none of you know: Pier 17 is rigged to blow at 12:30 AM. That's eight minutes from now. Eight minutes until everyone dies."
"Unless you can figure out which line to cut. Red? Blue? Green? Choose wrong, and you all die. Choose right, and maybe—just maybe—you'll learn the truth about Project Second Chance."
"Good luck, Doctor. You're going to need it."
I look at my dashboard clock: 12:22 AM.
Eight minutes.
I floor the gas pedal and pray I'm not too late to save them all.
But in my back mirror, the black sedan is still following.
And I realize with fear that whoever's driving it isn't trying to stop me from getting to Pier 17.
They're making sure I arrive right on time for the blast.