St. Joseph’s Hospital – Atlanta, Georgia Tuesday, June 16, 2026
Elena Ceaușescu walked through the hospital like she belonged there. No one stopped her. She moved with purpose down the hallway until she spotted a young nurse stepping out of a patient room, holding a clipboard and looking tired.
Elena didn’t say a word at first. She simply walked straight up to her, grabbed the nurse by the front of her scrubs, and shoved her hard into the nearest supply closet, kicking the door shut behind them with her heel.
The nurse let out a small yelp as her back hit the metal shelving.
Elena Ceaușescu: (cold, low, and direct) “Sterling Marlin. Talk.”
The nurse’s eyes went wide. She tried to pull away, but Elena kept a firm grip on her scrubs, not letting her move.
Nurse: (panicked) “I— I can’t just give out patient information! You’re not authorized—”
Elena slapped her. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but sharp enough to shut her up. The sound echoed in the small room.
Elena Ceaușescu: “I didn’t ask if you could. I told you to talk. How long has he been here? What is his condition? Is he conscious? Has he had surgery? Speak clearly or I will make this worse for you.”
The nurse was breathing fast now, clearly rattled.
Nurse: “He’s been here over a week… He had surgery for internal bleeding. There’s spinal damage. They’ve got him sedated most of the time. I don’t know everything, I’m not on his primary team—”
Elena grabbed the nurse by the jaw with one hand, squeezing just enough to make her uncomfortable.
Elena Ceaușescu: “You are going to take me to the doctor in charge of his care. Right now. And if you try to lie to me or stall, I will make sure the next person who finds you in here has a much bigger problem than you do right now. Do you understand?”
The nurse nodded quickly, eyes watering.
Nurse: (shaky) “…Okay. Okay. I’ll take you. Just— please don’t hit me again.”
Elena released her grip and stepped back slightly, smoothing down the front of the nurse’s scrubs like she was fixing her uniform.
Elena Ceaușescu: (calmly) “Good. Lead the way. And if you try to signal for help, I will break your fingers. One by one.”
The nurse swallowed hard, then slowly opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Elena followed right behind her, close enough that the nurse could feel her presence.
The young nurse led Elena down the hall with her head down, clearly nervous. She stopped outside a set of double doors and knocked lightly before opening one.
Inside, a tall, middle-aged man in a white coat looked up from a tablet. His badge read Dr. Raymond Hale – Attending Trauma Surgeon.
Nurse: (quietly) “Doctor Hale… this woman needs to speak with you about Mr. Marlin.”
Dr. Hale looked at Elena, then back at the nurse with a questioning expression. Before he could say anything, Elena stepped forward and spoke.
Elena Ceaușescu: (cold, direct) “Leave us.”
The nurse hesitated for half a second, then quickly slipped out and closed the door behind her.
Elena turned her full attention to the doctor. She didn’t sit. She didn’t introduce herself. She simply stood there and started speaking.
Elena Ceaușescu: “I want every detail about Sterling Marlin’s condition. Right now. No summaries. No medical language you think I won’t understand. Tell me exactly what is wrong with him.”
Dr. Hale blinked, clearly caught off guard by her tone.
Dr. Hale: “I’m sorry, but I can’t just release detailed patient information to—”
Elena Ceaușescu: (cutting him off) “I didn’t ask what you can or cannot do. I told you what I want. He has been here for over a week. I want to know the full extent of his injuries, what surgeries were performed, what his current status is, and what his long-term prognosis actually is. Speak.”
Dr. Hale studied her for a moment, then slowly set his tablet down.
Dr. Hale: “…He suffered significant trauma in the accident. Multiple rib fractures, a flail chest segment, pulmonary contusions, and internal bleeding that required emergency surgery. We also found thoracic spinal compression with associated edema around the spinal cord. He’s been intubated and heavily sedated since arrival. We’ve had to go back in once already due to complications from the bleeding.”
Elena didn’t react. She just kept staring at him.
Elena Ceaușescu: “Continue.”
Dr. Hale: (sighing) “The spinal swelling has not gone down as much as we hoped. There’s still a high risk of permanent nerve damage. At this stage, it’s very possible he could lose significant mobility in his lower body. We won’t know for certain until the swelling decreases, but… a wheelchair is not out of the question. Possibly long-term.”
Elena stayed quiet for a few seconds, processing.
Elena Ceaușescu: “Is he conscious at all?”
Dr. Hale: “No. He’s been kept sedated. We’ve tried to lighten it a few times, but he becomes agitated and his vitals destabilize. For now, it’s safer to keep him under.”
Elena Ceaușescu: “I want to see him.”
Dr. Hale: “Ma’am, he’s in the ICU. Visitors are restricted—”
Elena Ceaușescu: (voice sharpening slightly) “I didn’t ask for permission. I said I want to see him. Take me. Now.”
Dr. Hale looked at her for a long moment, clearly weighing whether to push back. Eventually, he gave a small, reluctant nod.
Dr. Hale: “…Follow me.”
Dr. Hale walked ahead of Elena down the hallway toward the ICU. Elena stayed right beside him, matching his pace.
Elena Ceaușescu: (calm, but direct) “Has he seen the video package?”
Dr. Hale glanced at her, slightly confused.
Dr. Hale: “…The video package?”
Elena Ceaușescu: “The one the company made. The tribute. With the girls at his bedside. Has he seen it?”
Dr. Hale: “No. He’s been sedated since he arrived. He hasn’t been conscious at any point. Even if it had been played in his room, he wouldn’t have been aware of it.”
Elena nodded once, like she had already expected that answer.
Elena Ceaușescu: “What about the show? The one after the accident. The one with Taylor Swift. Has anyone shown him that?”
Dr. Hale: (shaking his head) “No. Again, he’s been under heavy sedation the entire time. He hasn’t watched anything. He hasn’t spoken to anyone. He’s not in a state where he can process media or conversations.”
They continued walking. Elena’s expression didn’t change, but her questions kept coming.
Elena Ceaușescu: “When the camera crew came to film the segments here… how did he respond?”
Dr. Hale: (sounding slightly uncomfortable) “He didn’t respond at all. He was unconscious the entire time they were here. The crew filmed around him. They didn’t interact with him directly because he couldn’t interact back. We made sure they didn’t interfere with his care, but beyond that, we weren’t involved in what they were shooting.”
Elena stayed quiet for a few steps, thinking.
Elena Ceaușescu: “So he doesn’t know any of it happened. The video. The crew. The girls standing over him.”
Dr. Hale: “No. As far as we know, he has no awareness of any of it.”
They reached the doors to the ICU. Dr. Hale stopped and turned to her.
Dr. Hale: “Before we go in… I need to be clear. He’s heavily sedated and intubated. He won’t be able to speak or respond to you. If you’re expecting any kind of conversation, you won’t get one.”
Elena Ceaușescu: (coldly) “I’m not here to talk to him. I’m here to see what’s actually being done to him.”
Dr. Hale studied her for a moment, then nodded and pushed open the doors.
Dr. Hale: “…This way.”
Dr. Hale had his hand on the ICU door when Elena stopped walking.
Elena Ceaușescu: “Have you seen the video package?”
Dr. Hale turned to her, slightly confused by the question.
Dr. Hale: “…The video package?”
Elena Ceaușescu: “The one the company made. With the girls at his bedside. The one they filmed here. Have you seen it?”
Dr. Hale: (hesitating) “I… saw parts of it. It was playing on one of the televisions in the break room earlier.”
Elena Ceaușescu: “What did you think of it?”
Dr. Hale looked uncomfortable.
Dr. Hale: “It was… very produced. Very dramatic. I don’t think it was very accurate to what actually happened, but that’s not really my place to say.”
Elena Ceaușescu: “Do you think it was truthful?”
Dr. Hale: “I think it was made to serve a purpose. Not to show what actually happened.”
Elena studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable.
Elena Ceaușescu: “And what do you think of this company? CBWL. What is your opinion of them?”
Dr. Hale shifted slightly, clearly not expecting these kinds of questions.
Dr. Hale: “I don’t really have an opinion on them. They’re a client. They pay their bills. Beyond that, I don’t involve myself in their business.”
Elena Ceaușescu: “You allowed them to film in your hospital. You allowed them to put cameras on an unconscious man and bring in women to stand over him. That is your hospital. That is your patient. And you have no opinion?”
Dr. Hale was quiet for a few seconds.
Dr. Hale: “…I was told it was for a tribute. Something positive. I didn’t see the final product until after it was already released.”
Elena stared at him a moment longer, then gave a small nod.
Elena Ceaușescu: “Take me inside. I want to see him.”
Dr. Hale pushed open the heavy ICU door and stepped aside to let Elena through.
The room was dim, lit only by the cold blue glow of monitors and the harsh overhead fluorescents. The air was thick with the smell of antiseptic, stale sweat, and something faintly metallic. Multiple machines hummed and beeped in a steady, mechanical rhythm. An IV pole stood beside the bed like a metal skeleton, carrying several bags of clear fluid. A ventilator hissed rhythmically in the corner, pushing air in and out of Sterling’s lungs through a thick tube taped into his mouth.
Sterling Marlin lay motionless in the center of the bed.
His body was heavily bandaged. Thick white gauze was wrapped around his torso, stained yellow in several places where fluid had seeped through. His chest rose and fell only because of the machine breathing for him. Both of his arms were bruised deep purple and black from the IVs and repeated blood draws. His face was swollen, especially around the eyes and jaw. A large bruise stretched across the left side of his face and down his neck. His lips were cracked and dry around the breathing tube.
His lower body was mostly covered by a thin hospital blanket, but Elena could see the shape of a brace or stabilization device around his midsection. One of his legs was slightly elevated. There were more tubes — a catheter bag hung off the side of the bed, half full of dark yellow fluid. Another drain tube disappeared under the blanket near his abdomen.
The monitors showed his heart rate, oxygen levels, and blood pressure in glowing green numbers. Everything looked stable, but fragile.
Dr. Hale stood quietly near the foot of the bed, giving Elena space.
Elena Ceaușescu: (quietly, without looking at him) “Has he woken up at all since he arrived?”
Dr. Hale: “No. We’ve attempted to lighten sedation twice. Both times his agitation caused dangerous spikes in blood pressure and heart rate. We had to sedate him again immediately.”
Elena stepped closer to the bed. She looked down at Sterling’s face for a long moment. His eyes were taped shut. His skin had a waxy, grayish tone beneath the bruising. She could see the faint outline of where the breathing tube was secured.
Elena Ceaușescu: “The spinal swelling. Has it improved at all?”
Dr. Hale: “Minimal improvement. We’re still seeing significant compression at T8 through T10. We’re monitoring it daily, but the progress has been slower than we’d like.”
Elena’s eyes moved across the machines, the tubes, the restraints on his wrists.
Elena Ceaușescu: “And the internal bleeding?”
Dr. Hale: “Controlled for now. We had to go back in once already. There’s still risk of re-bleeding if the pressure changes too quickly.”
Elena stood there for several seconds in silence, just observing. The only sounds in the room were the steady mechanical hiss of the ventilator and the soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.
Dr. Hale stood near the foot of the bed while Elena remained at Sterling’s side, staring down at the unconscious man. She was quiet for several seconds before she spoke.
Elena Ceaușescu: “Will he be able to drive a truck by Friday?”
Dr. Hale blinked, caught off guard by the question.
Dr. Hale: “…I’m sorry?”
Elena Ceaușescu: (completely serious) “He drives the CBWL ring truck. That is his responsibility. He moves the ring and the equipment so the shows can happen. Will he be capable of performing that function by Friday?”
Dr. Hale stared at her for a moment, trying to process whether she was being serious.
Dr. Hale: “Ms. Ceaușescu… he is currently intubated and heavily sedated. He has significant spinal compression, multiple broken ribs, internal injuries, and we are still monitoring brain activity due to the trauma. Even if he wakes up in the next few days, which is unlikely, there is no medical possibility that he will be fit to drive a truck by Friday. He may not be fit to drive a truck for months. Possibly ever.”
Elena didn’t react to the severity of the answer. She simply nodded once and continued.
Elena Ceaușescu: “He is crucial to the operation. Without him, the ring does not move. Without the ring, there is no show. This is a problem that must be solved.”
She looked back down at Sterling.
Elena Ceaușescu: “If he cannot drive by Friday, then I need to know who will replace him. And if no one can replace him, then I need to know how the company is expected to function.”
Dr. Hale looked at her like he wasn’t sure how to respond to someone treating a critically injured man like a piece of broken machinery.
Dr. Hale: “…With all due respect, right now the priority is keeping him alive. Not whether he can drive a truck in three days.”
Elena Ceaușescu: (flatly) “Both are priorities. One does not cancel out the other.”
She turned her head slightly toward the doctor.
Elena Ceaușescu: “Tell me what his realistic recovery timeline is. No optimism. No vague answers. I want numbers.”
Dr. Hale took a breath before answering, choosing his words carefully.
Dr. Hale: “Realistically… even in the most optimistic scenario, Mr. Marlin is looking at a minimum of six to eight weeks before he could even be considered for any kind of driving duties. That’s assuming the swelling in his spine goes down significantly, there’s no permanent nerve damage, and he responds well to physical therapy. In a more probable scenario, we’re looking at three to six months before he could safely operate a vehicle again. And there’s still a very real chance he may never fully recover the mobility needed to drive a truck long-term.”
Elena stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
Elena Ceaușescu: “This is not reasonable.”
Dr. Hale: “Excuse me?”
Elena Ceaușescu: (voice sharpening) “Three to six months? This is not acceptable. We have a show on Friday. He drives the ring truck. He is essential to the operation. You are telling me he cannot perform his basic function for half a year? This is not reasonable.”
She pulled out her phone and began scrolling through it aggressively.
Elena Ceaușescu: “I am not accepting this. I want a second opinion. Immediately. I do not trust these numbers. I do not trust this hospital’s assessment.”
Dr. Hale: (trying to stay calm) “Ms. Ceaușescu, these are not numbers I’m pulling out of thin air. These are based on his injuries, the imaging, and standard recovery timelines for this level of trauma—”
Elena Ceaușescu: (cutting him off) “Standard timelines mean nothing to me. I have seen how hospitals operate. I have seen how they lie, how they protect themselves, how they exaggerate problems to cover their own failures. How do I know you are even a real doctor? How do I know this is not some scheme to keep him here longer than necessary? How do I know you are not working with someone to sabotage this operation?”
Dr. Hale looked stunned.
Elena Ceaușescu: (still scrolling through her phone) “I pay the bills here. Not you. Not this hospital. Me. My company. And I will not accept incompetence or corruption. If you cannot give me a realistic timeline that allows him to return to work, then I will bring in someone who can. Someone who understands what is at stake.”
Elena stepped out of Sterling’s room and into the hallway. Without hesitation, she pulled out her phone and scrolled until she found the name she was looking for.
Hunter S. Thompson.
She hit the call button and switched it to FaceTime. It rang several times before the screen lit up with Hunter’s face — sunglasses on indoors, cigarette in his mouth, looking like he’d been awake for three days straight.
Hunter S. Thompson: (raspy, low) “…Elena. This better be good. I was in the middle of something important.”
Elena Ceaușescu: (cold and direct) “I am at the hospital with Sterling Marlin. I need your opinion. Now.”
She turned the phone around and pointed the camera at Sterling’s unconscious body — the tubes, the ventilator, the heavy bandaging, the monitors. She held it there for several seconds so Hunter could see everything clearly.
Elena Ceaușescu: (still holding the phone up) “The doctor here says he has spinal compression, internal bleeding, broken ribs, and significant trauma. He says even in the best case, Sterling will not be able to drive for three to six months. Possibly longer. Possibly never. He is sedated and will remain that way for the foreseeable future.”
She turned the phone back around so Hunter could see her face again.
Elena Ceaușescu: “I do not believe him. These timelines are not reasonable. We have a show on Friday. Sterling drives the ring truck. He is essential. I want your opinion. Not hospital language. Not optimism. Tell me what you actually think.”
Hunter took a long drag from his cigarette and stared at the screen for a moment, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses.
Hunter S. Thompson: (after a long exhale) “Well… he looks like he got hit by a fucking freight train and then backed over for good measure. That much is obvious.”
He leaned in slightly, studying the image in his mind.
Hunter S. Thompson: “Three to six months sounds about right if we’re being generous. Spinal shit like that doesn’t just bounce back because we need him to drive a truck. And if they’ve got him sedated this deep, it’s because they’re scared of what happens when he wakes up. Could be pain. Could be brain swelling. Could be both.”
Elena’s jaw tightened slightly.
Elena Ceaușescu: “So you agree with the hospital?”
Hunter S. Thompson: (shaking his head) “I didn’t say that. I’m saying the situation looks fucked. But hospitals also love to cover their own asses with big, safe numbers. They’ll tell you six months when it might be four… or they’ll tell you six months when it’s actually a year and he never drives again. Hard to say without seeing the actual scans myself.”
He took another drag and exhaled slowly.
Hunter S. Thompson: “Turn the machines off.”
Elena paused.
Elena Ceaușescu: “…What?”
Hunter S. Thompson: “Tell them to shut it all down. The ventilator, the sedation, the works. Let him wake up. Let him fight. Sterling’s a tough old bastard. He doesn’t need to be kept in some chemical coma while they wait around hoping his spine decides to behave. He needs to wake up and deal with this himself.”
Elena stared at the screen, her expression unreadable.
Hunter S. Thompson: “Look, I’ve seen men in worse shape than this pull through when they were forced to. Sometimes the body needs the panic. Needs the fight. Keeping him under like this? It’s just delaying the inevitable. Either he comes back on his own, or he doesn’t. But at least give him the chance to try.”
Elena was quiet for a few seconds, processing what he was suggesting.
Elena Ceaușescu: “You are suggesting we remove life support from a man who is currently unconscious and unable to breathe on his own.”
Hunter S. Thompson: “I’m suggesting we stop treating him like he’s already dead. He’s not some delicate little flower. He’s a man who’s been through hell and back his whole life. Let him wake up and see what he’s dealing with. If he dies fighting, then at least he died like a man instead of rotting in a bed for six months while they run tests and charge us a fortune.”
Elena looked back toward Sterling’s room door.
Elena Ceaușescu: “…And if he dies the moment they turn the machines off?”
Hunter S. Thompson: (after a long drag of his cigarette) “Then we’ll know he wasn’t going to make it anyway. Better to find that out now than waste weeks pretending he’s coming back when he’s not.”
Elena stood in the hallway, still on FaceTime with Hunter S. Thompson. She had just processed his suggestion to turn off Sterling’s machines when Hunter spoke again.
Hunter S. Thompson: (raspy, low) “I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Back in the ‘70s, I knew a guy out in Colorado — tough bastard, ex-military, took a bad fall off a horse. Doctors had him hooked up to every machine they could find. Kept him under for weeks. By the time they finally let him wake up, he was a vegetable. Couldn’t even feed himself. Another guy I knew in ‘82, same deal. Motorcycle wreck. They kept him sedated for a month straight. When they finally brought him out of it, he was never the same. Some people need to fight their way back while they still have the strength. Keeping them under too long just lets the body give up.”
Elena listened without interrupting.
Hunter S. Thompson: “Put me on the phone with the doctor. Right now.”
Elena didn’t argue. She turned and walked back into Sterling’s room. Dr. Hale was still standing near the foot of the bed. Elena held the phone out toward him.
Elena Ceaușescu: “Someone wants to speak with you.”
Dr. Hale looked confused but took the phone. Hunter’s face appeared on the screen.
Hunter S. Thompson: “Doctor. Hunter S. Thompson. I’m one of the physicians on CBWL’s payroll. I’ve reviewed the situation. I want you to turn off the ventilator and stop the sedation.”
Dr. Hale’s eyes widened slightly.
Dr. Hale: “Excuse me? I don’t know who you are, but I’m not going to—”
Hunter S. Thompson: (cutting him off, voice sharp) “You’re going to listen to me because I’m telling you, as a licensed physician, that keeping this man under like this is doing more harm than good. I’ve seen it too many times. You’re not saving him. You’re just delaying the inevitable and weakening whatever fight he has left. Turn off the machines. Let him wake up. Let him breathe on his own. If he crashes, then he crashes. But at least give him the chance to fight.”
Dr. Hale looked stunned. He glanced at Elena, then back at the phone.
Dr. Hale: “I’m not going to make a decision like that based on a FaceTime call from someone I’ve never met. This is a serious medical situation. We don’t just—”
Hunter S. Thompson: (interrupting again) “You’re going to do it because I’m telling you to. And if you don’t, I’ll make sure every higher-up at that hospital knows you refused a direct medical order from another physician. Turn off the goddamn machines.”
Dr. Hale looked visibly shaken. He slowly lowered the phone and looked at Elena.
Dr. Hale: (quietly) “…Who the hell was that?”
Elena Ceaușescu: (coldly) “Someone who outranks you. Do what he says.”
Dr. Hale was still holding the phone, trying to push back against Hunter’s demand.
Dr. Hale: “I’m not going to do that. I don’t care who you are. I’m not turning off life support based on a phone call from—”
Before he could finish, Elena moved.
She stepped in close, fast and without hesitation. Her left hand shot out and grabbed Dr. Hale firmly between the legs, clutching his penis through his scrubs with a tight, unyielding grip. At the same time, her right hand seized his wrist.
Dr. Hale’s eyes went wide with shock and pain. He tried to pull away, but Elena’s grip was strong and deliberate. She didn’t raise her voice. She simply spoke in the same cold, flat tone she always used.
Elena Ceaușescu: “You will turn off the machines.”
She began moving his captured hand toward the ventilator and the cluster of monitors and plugs beside the bed, guiding it like she was forcing a child to do something they didn’t want to do.
Elena Ceaușescu: “Now.”
Dr. Hale’s face had gone pale. He was breathing hard, clearly in pain from her grip, and trying not to make any sudden movements.
Elena Ceaușescu: (still holding him tightly) “You are going to do exactly as you were told. You are going to disconnect the ventilator. You are going to stop the sedation. And you are going to do it right now. If you refuse again, I will break your fingers one by one until you comply.”
She gave his crotch another sharp squeeze to emphasize her point.
Elena Ceaușescu: “Do you understand me?”
Dr. Hale was visibly shaking. He looked between Elena’s cold, emotionless face and Sterling’s unconscious body on the bed. After a few tense seconds, he gave a small, defeated nod.
Dr. Hale: (strained) “…Yes.”
Elena slowly released his wrist but kept her other hand exactly where it was.
Elena Ceaușescu: “Good. Begin.”
Dr. Hale’s hand was still trembling as Elena kept her grip on him. She didn’t let go.
Elena Ceaușescu: (cold and flat) “All of them. At once. From the power bar.”
Dr. Hale hesitated for half a second, but the pressure between his legs increased sharply. He winced and quickly reached out with his free hand toward the power strip on the wall beside the bed.
One by one, he began yanking the plugs.
The ventilator shut off first with a sudden, final click and hiss as the machine powered down. The rhythmic mechanical breathing that had been keeping Sterling alive stopped completely. The monitors went dark one after another — heart rate, oxygen levels, blood pressure — until the only sound left in the room was the faint, wet, struggling noise coming from Sterling’s own throat as his body tried to breathe on its own.
Sterling’s chest jerked once. Then again. His body twitched violently against the restraints as it fought for air without the machine forcing oxygen into his lungs. A low, wet, choking sound escaped around the breathing tube still taped in his mouth.
Elena finally released Dr. Hale’s wrist and stepped back slightly, watching with cold detachment.
The machines were silent now.
The moment the last plug was pulled, the room changed. The steady mechanical rhythm that had been breathing for Sterling disappeared. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then his body reacted.
His chest jerked once — a weak, uneven spasm. Then again. His lungs tried to pull in air on their own, but it was shallow and labored. A wet, gurgling sound came from his throat as air fought to move past the breathing tube still taped in his mouth. His body twitched hard against the restraints on his wrists and ankles. His fingers curled and uncurled involuntarily.
His skin, already pale from weeks in the hospital, began to take on a faint bluish tint around his lips and fingertips. His chest rose and fell in short, desperate bursts, but it was clear he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Every few seconds his body would convulse slightly, like it was trying to cough but couldn’t. A thick, wet choking noise came from deep in his throat.
His eyes suddenly fluttered open for the first time in over a week.
They were unfocused and glassy, rolling slightly as his body panicked from the sudden lack of oxygen. He made a horrible, strained sound around the tube — somewhere between a gasp and a choke. His back arched weakly off the bed as his body fought against the sedation still lingering in his system. His legs twitched and kicked against the restraints.
It was ugly. There was nothing dignified about it. His body was clearly in distress, struggling and failing to properly breathe on its own. Every few seconds he would make another wet, strangled sound as his lungs tried and failed to clear themselves. His face was turning a deeper shade of blue by the second.
Elena stood at the side of the bed, watching without any visible emotion. Her arms were folded across her chest as she observed Sterling’s body fighting — and slowly losing — against the simple act of breathing.
Dr. Hale stood frozen near the door, looking horrified.
Sterling’s eyes rolled again. Another weak, choking gasp escaped him. His fingers twitched one last time before his body went into another spasm, his back arching hard off the mattress as he fought for air that wasn’t coming fast enough.
It was hard to watch.
And it was only getting worse.
For a few seconds, it looked like Sterling was losing the fight.
His chest was barely moving. The choking, gurgling sounds were getting weaker. His skin was turning a deeper shade of blue. Elena stood motionless, watching without any visible reaction.
Then something changed.
Sterling’s body suddenly jerked hard. His eyes snapped open wide — bloodshot and unfocused. A raw, animalistic sound tore from his throat as his hands shot up with shocking strength. He grabbed the breathing tube and, with one violent motion, ripped it straight out of his mouth.
The sound was wet and horrible. Blood sprayed across the pillow and down his chin as the tube tore through tissue on the way out. He immediately started gasping and choking, thick strings of blood and saliva hanging from his mouth as he fought for air.
Before anyone could react, his hands moved again. He reached down and violently tore the catheter out of his body with a scream of pure agony. More blood followed.
Sterling Marlin: (screaming, voice raw and broken) “GREEN FLAG! GREEN FLAG, GODDAMN IT—!”
He tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. His legs barely moved. His arms flailed wildly as he rolled off the side of the bed and crashed hard onto the hospital floor with a sickening thud. The impact knocked the wind out of him, but he kept moving — or at least tried to.
He ended up on his stomach, arms stretched out in front of him like he was gripping an invisible steering wheel. His hands kept twitching and turning like he was working a shifter. His legs kicked uselessly behind him.
Sterling Marlin: (screaming) “INSIDE! INSIDE LINE! DON’T LET HIM HAVE THE BOTTOM—!”
He kept trying to crawl forward in that same position, like he was still in a race car, completely unaware that his lower body wasn’t working. Blood poured from his mouth and throat as he screamed.
Sterling Marlin: (raspy, desperate) “TRUCK’S SLIDING! SHE’S LOOSE! HOLD IT— HOLD IT—!”
Two nurses burst into the room at the same time. One of them immediately dropped to her knees beside him while the other hit the emergency button on the wall.
Nurse 1: (panicked) “Code! We need help in here now!”
Sterling kept flailing on the floor, still locked in that driving position, blood dripping from his mouth as he kept screaming.
Sterling Marlin: (voice cracking) “CAUTION! YELLOW FLAG! YELLOW FLAG—!”
One of the nurses tried to roll him onto his back, but he fought her, still swinging his arms like he was trying to steer through a wreck.
Sterling Marlin: (screaming) “GET THE WRECKER! GET THE GODDAMN WRECKER—!”
More staff rushed into the room as alarms started blaring from the now-silent machines.
Elena stood off to the side, watching the chaos unfold with the same cold, unreadable expression.
The room had turned into complete chaos.
Nurses and two additional doctors rushed in as Sterling continued thrashing on the floor, still locked in that driving position, blood pouring from his mouth as he kept screaming.
Sterling Marlin: (raspy, frantic) “INSIDE! INSIDE! DON’T LET HIM HAVE THE BOTTOM—!”
One of the nurses quickly prepared a syringe while another tried to hold him down. Sterling’s arms kept swinging wildly, and it took three people to finally get him under control. The nurse jammed the needle into his arm and pushed the sedative in.
Within seconds, Sterling’s movements started to slow. His screaming turned into incoherent mumbling.
Sterling Marlin: (slurring) “…truck’s loose… yellow flag… yellow flag…”
His body finally went limp as the drugs took hold. They carefully lifted him off the floor and got him back into the bed, reattaching monitors and working fast to stabilize him. Blood was still dripping from his mouth and throat where he had ripped the breathing tube out.
Elena watched the entire thing without moving.
Once Sterling was back in the bed and sedated again, she turned to Dr. Hale, who was still standing near the wall looking shaken.
Elena Ceaușescu: (cold and flat) “He will drive on Friday. If he does not, I will come back here and kill you. And then I will kill everyone else in this hospital who had anything to do with this.”
Dr. Hale stared at her, clearly unsure if she was serious.
Elena Ceaușescu: “I am not making a threat. I am stating what will happen. Fix him. Or I will end you and everyone connected to this failure.”
She didn’t wait for a response.
Elena turned and walked out of the room without another word. She moved down the hallway at a steady pace, ignoring the nurses and staff who were still rushing toward Sterling’s room. She didn’t check out. She didn’t speak to anyone. She simply left the hospital like she had never been there.
Once she was outside, she pulled out her phone and made a call as she walked toward her car.
Elena Ceaușescu: (into the phone) “It’s me. We have a problem.”
Elena Ceaușescu: (cold and direct) “It’s Elena. I’m at the hospital with Sterling. They are killing him.”
There was a pause on the other end.
Cowboy Watts: “…What the fuck are you talking about?”
Elena Ceaușescu: “They have him hooked up to machines that are keeping him from recovering. They are sedating him and putting him on life support that is doing more damage than good. He was fighting to wake up and they were trying to stop him. This hospital is not helping him. They are making his condition worse.”
Cowboy was quiet for a second, clearly trying to process what she was saying.
Cowboy Watts: “Elena, slow down. What do you mean they’re killing him? What did the doctors say?”
Elena Ceaușescu: “I don’t care what they said. They are lying. They have him on machines that are keeping him unconscious and weakening him. If they hook him back up to those machines again, he may never recover. He needs to be removed from this hospital immediately.”
Cowboy Watts: (sounding stressed) “Jesus Christ… Elena, what the hell happened over there?”
Elena Ceaușescu: “What happened is that they are not treating him. They are managing him like a problem instead of helping him recover. He needs to be taken out of there before they put him back on those machines.”
She paused for a moment before continuing in the same flat tone.
Elena Ceaușescu: “When Tony is finished with whatever he is doing, tell him to get down here. Bring Butterbean with him. And if he can bring John Wick too, even better. We need to get Sterling out of this hospital before they hook him back up and finish what they started.”
Cowboy Watts: “Elena… you’re talking about breaking him out of a hospital. Do you understand how insane that sounds?”
Elena Ceaușescu: “I understand that if we leave him there, he will not survive. That is all that matters right now. Get Tony and Butterbean here. Tonight if possible. We are not waiting.”
Cowboy let out a long, tired sigh on the other end of the line.
Cowboy Watts: “…I’ll call Tony. But Jesus, Elena. This is getting out of hand.”
Elena Ceaușescu: “It already is. Fix it.”
She hung up without another word and kept driving.
Tony was still driving with the window down when his phone started ringing. He glanced at the screen and saw Cowboy calling. He let it ring a couple times before finally answering and putting it on speaker.
Tony Soprano: (flat) “Yeah.”
Cowboy Watts: (sounding stressed) “Tony. Where the fuck are you right now?”
Tony Soprano: “Still on the road. We just landed and picked up the car. What’s going on?”
Cowboy Watts: “Elena’s at the hospital with Sterling. She just called me. She says they’re killing him in there.”
Tony raised an eyebrow.
Tony Soprano: “Killing him? What the fuck are you talking about?”
Cowboy Watts: “She said they’ve got him hooked up to machines that are making him worse. She said they’re keeping him sedated and on life support on purpose, and that if they hook him back up again, he might not make it. She wants you to go down there and get him out.”
Tony let out a short, annoyed laugh.
Tony Soprano: “You’re kidding me, right? She wants me to break him out of a hospital?”
Cowboy Watts: “That’s what she said. She told me to send you and Butterbean down there as soon as you’re done with whatever you’re doing. She even said to bring John Wick if you can.”
Tony glanced at Butterbean in the rearview mirror for a second, then looked back at the road.
Tony Soprano: “Jesus Christ… This is getting out of hand. We just got Wendy. I’m still three hours out from the hotel. And now you want me to go play rescue mission at a hospital?”
Cowboy Watts: “I don’t know what the fuck is going on over there, but Elena sounded dead serious. She said they’re not helping him, they’re finishing him off. I need you to handle this.”
Tony was quiet for a few seconds, clearly irritated.
Tony Soprano: “…Alright. I’ll deal with it when I get back. But I’m not driving another three hours after I already just got off a plane. I’ll get to the hotel, drop Wendy off, and then figure out what the fuck we’re doing about Sterling.”
Cowboy Watts: “Just get it handled, Tony. We’re running out of time and I’ve got enough shit going wrong already.”
Tony Soprano: “Yeah, yeah. I got it.”
He hung up and tossed the phone into the cupholder, shaking his head.
Tony Soprano: (muttering) “Fucking hospital’s killing him now… What the hell is going on with this place?”
He kept driving, clearly in a worse mood than before.
No comments:
Post a Comment