The dust. The blood. Sergeant Lucas Kane slipping into shock as I dragged him across rubble. The helicopter shaking violently after impact. Systems failing. My arm pinned in place, doing two jobs at once—keeping him alive and stabilizing part of the aircraft.
If I moved, he died.
If I moved wrong, we all did.
So I didn’t move.
That’s where the scars came from.
Not fear.
Choice.
Reeves placed a transcript on the desk.
“From the command link,” he said. “Your patient—Chief Lucas Kane—requesting that she not be removed from the aircraft because she’s the only reason he still has a pulse.”
Rowe went pale.
Reeves wasn’t finished.
“You saw a decorated combat medic and assumed deception. You saw a woman with SEAL teams and assumed exaggeration. You were seconds away from ending a career because reality didn’t fit your expectations.”
Rowe tried one last argument—caution, psychological risk.
“You weren’t cautious,” Reeves said. “You were arrogant.”
That ended it.
Rowe was removed pending investigation.
But as he left, he muttered something under his breath:
“If people stopped chasing hero status, real medicine could work.”
That word—people—said everything.
Prejudice, exposed.