A jolt slammed through his chest. His body jerked violently on the table. The monitor screamed, then steadied into a fragile rhythm.
"We have got rhythm," someone said, relieved. "Move him to ICU."
They wheeled him down the corridor. Fluorescent lights flickered above in steady rhythm. Rain streaked the tall windows.
In the ICU, the nurse at his side murmured softly, "You're lucky, whoever you are." She glanced at the ID clipped to the report and read his name aloud. "Leo Thorne." Her voice gentled. "You're lucky, Leo Thorne." She said it almost like a prayer and turned to the monitor to watch his vitals.
Hours passed and the rain eased outside, leaving the streets slick and quiet. The hospital grew quiet too. Only the sound of monitors, footsteps, and soft voices filled the halls. In the ICU, Leo lay still under white sheets while the machines tracked his weak heartbeat.
A detective had come earlier, asking for details. A nurse handed over his belongings: a phone cracked across the screen, a wallet, a set of car keys, a laptop, and a silver flash drive sealed in a plastic evidence bag. The detective studied it briefly before tucking it away.
"Family?" he asked.
"Not yet," the nurse said. "No one's called."
He nodded, leaving with the evidence bag swinging at his side.
Inside the room, Leo stirred faintly, and his fingers twitched. But no one saw.
The night stretched long after the storm passed. The city outside gleamed with rain. Streetlights reflected off puddles like scattered stars. Inside the hospital, the clock ticked steadily. A janitor mopped the corridor floor, pausing once to glance into Leo's room. He looked peaceful— too still to seem alive. In the nurse's station, paperwork piled high beside untouched coffee cups. Someone yawned. Someone laughed softly at a joke.
At 6:42 a.m., dawn crept over the city. The sky was a pale bruise of gray and gold. Somewhere beyond the hospital walls, traffic resumed, horns echoed over the wet streets.
In a small apartment across town, a television flickered to life.
A woman in a bathrobe carried her coffee to the table and turned up the volume as the morning news anchor spoke.
"We begin with breaking news. Authorities have confirmed a fatal collision overnight on the coastal highway. The crash involved a single vehicle believed to have veered off the road near the East Dock turn."
Footage appeared: twisted metal, flashing lights, rain falling over the wreckage.
"The victim, identified through personal identification found at the scene, has been named Leo Thorne, age thirty-one."
The screen showed a picture — his ID photo, slightly worn, the faint half-smile he had used for formal documents.
"Emergency services transported the victim to St. Helena Medical Center, but according to reports received just moments ago, he succumbed to his injuries before dawn."
The anchor's tone softened.
"Investigators say the cause of the accident was a head-on collision. Authorities are continuing their inquiries and asking anyone with information to come forward."
The woman watching the news frowned, shaking her head. "Poor guy," she murmured, sipping her coffee. Her cat leapt onto the chair beside her, brushing her arm with its tail.
Onscreen, Leo's photo lingered a moment longer before the broadcast shifted to a weather update.