Hidden live

Part 12

Noah's shoes hit the pavement in a steady, urgent rhythm. The autumn air was sharp, cold against his cheeks, but he barely noticed. His mind was focused entirely on her—the fragile, trembling girl who had called him in desperation. The phone pressed to his ear carried only her shallow, uneven breathing and the faintest whisper of her voice: "...Noah..."

Adrenaline burned through him. Every step, every passing car, every shadow in the streets heightened his senses. He didn't know exactly what she had endured, but he knew it had to be bad. He had imagined situations like this countless times, but nothing prepared him for the reality of the fear and pain that must have driven her to call him.

The cafeteria came into view. Students milled about outside, laughing, chatting, oblivious. Noah's eyes scanned frantically. And then he saw her.

She was pressed against the far wall, small and hunched, her back rigid, her head down. Blood streaked her face, her uniform torn in places, the remnants of a shattered tray and scattered food littering the floor. Bruises were forming on her arms and legs, dark and angry beneath her pale skin. Her hands clutched her backpack straps as if they were the only anchor keeping her from collapsing completely.

"Ell!" he shouted, voice cracking with urgency and something darker—fear mixed with fury. The cafeteria seemed to pause for a heartbeat; students glanced at them, curiosity and shock flickering in their expressions. Noah ignored them all. He had no time for witnesses.

He pushed through the crowd, each step precise and controlled, until he reached her. Kneeling beside her, he placed a hand gently on her shoulder, careful not to jostle her more than necessary.

"I've got you," he said softly, brushing her bloodied hair back from her face. "You're safe. Look at me, Ell. You're safe now."

Her lips trembled. Tears streaked her cheeks, mixing with the blood from her split lip. Her eyes were wide, glassy with shock and pain, and she trembled all over, her small body wracked by both fear and exhaustion. She didn't speak. She barely moved. She simply let him examine her quietly, silently allowing him to take in the full extent of the damage.

The bruises, the swelling, the blood—everything screamed trauma. Noah's chest tightened at the sight. He gritted his teeth, keeping his voice calm but firm, grounding her.

"You're going to be okay," he murmured. "I promise. Just come with me, slowly. We're going to get you help."

Ellura leaned slightly against him, allowing him to support her. Every step was measured, slow. She was shaking, but she stayed upright, trusting him enough to move. Her small frame felt impossibly fragile in his arms.

Outside, the cold air hit her skin. She shivered violently, and Noah wrapped his jacket around her, pulling her close. The city seemed to blur around them—lights, sounds, people—all irrelevant. Only she mattered.

"Can you walk, or do you need me to carry you?" he asked. She didn't answer. Her weight leaned slightly on him, and he supported her fully, careful to guide her without causing more pain.

At the car, he helped her into the passenger seat, sliding her in gently. Her legs shook as she lowered herself onto the seat, and he buckled her in, careful not to press on any bruises or fresh wounds. Her hands clutched the seatbelt, her face pale and drawn.

Noah slid into the driver's seat, gripping the wheel tightly. Engine roaring to life, he navigated through traffic with precision, every stoplight, every turn calculated. His eyes flicked constantly to her. She was silent, barely moving, blood still streaked across her face, her lip swollen, her breathing shallow. Hunger, exhaustion, and shock all showed in the tense line of her shoulders.

"Hold on," he whispered, mostly to himself. He murmured reassurance to her as he drove, though she didn't respond. "You're going to be okay. We'll get you fixed up. I've got you."

Finally, they arrived at the emergency entrance of the hospital. Noah didn't hesitate. He opened the door and helped her out, supporting her fragile frame as they moved inside. Nurses immediately rushed forward, eyes widening at the sight of her bloodied face and bruised body.

"Trauma, now!" one called, taking her carefully. Noah watched, hands clenched, as they wheeled her away. He could see the worry on the nurses' faces, their urgency matching the fear that had been building in him since the phone call.

He sank into the chair outside the trauma room, jaw tight, shoulders tense. The hospital's bright lights felt harsh, the sterile smell filling his nose, but all of it faded behind his focus on her. She had reached out to him. She had trusted him enough to call.

And yet, as he sat there, phone still clutched in his hand, he realized the terrifying truth: she had called... but she hadn't spoken beyond a single word. She hadn't told him what had happened, what they had done to her, or how bad it really was.

He exhaled slowly, trying to steady his racing thoughts. Every second stretched painfully. Every moment she remained silent made the waiting almost unbearable. And somewhere in the pit of his stomach, he knew that the moment she finally opened her mouth, the truth would be more than he could have imagined.

He pressed the phone lightly to his ear, listening, heart hammering. Outside the trauma room, the world felt suspended, holding its breath. And he waited—knowing that she had reached out, but also knowing that the silence on the other end was almost as urgent, almost as dangerous, as the crisis itself.

The line stayed open. Her breathing, faint, tremulous, was all he had. And he clutched it, waiting for her to speak, knowing that whatever came next could change everything.