The ER froze when a fearsome biker burst through the doors, begging for help while carrying a dying child. But when her DNA was tested, the system collapsed—and the FBI sealed the hospital after discovering the girl officially did not exist.

Knox didn’t look up. “Saving a kid,” he muttered.

Pike snorted. “Funny way of doing it. Hands behind your back.”

The zip ties bit into Knox’s wrists without resistance. He didn’t argue. He didn’t fight. His eyes were fixed on the closed trauma room doors as if willpower alone might keep them from opening the wrong way.

Inside Trauma Bay Two, Elaine worked with a speed born of long nights and worse outcomes, IV lines sliding into place, oxygen mask secured, monitors chirping erratically as Ivy’s heart rate skidded between too fast and dangerously slow.

“Core temp is hypothermic,” one nurse called out. “Blood pressure dropping.”

Elaine leaned closer, her brow furrowing as she examined the child’s arms.

There, on the inside of Ivy’s left forearm, was a tattoo.

Not decorative. Not artistic.

Just numbers.

11-03-21.

It looked old enough to have healed, but uneven, the ink slightly blurred as if it had been done by someone with a shaking hand or no professional tools at all, and a cold thread of unease slid down Elaine’s spine.

“Has anyone run her through the system yet?” she asked.