Blades & Burnout

Prologue - Decrease in Elevation

Aria

The lights didn't just flicker; they died.

The low, hydraulic hum of the medical arts elevator snapped off with a sharp, heavy clunk that vibrated straight through the thin rubber soles of my nursing student clogs. For a microsecond, my stomach floated into my throat as the car dropped three inches, the safety brakes grinding violently against the steel shafts before catching with a finality that made the metal cable grovel.

Then, pure, suffocating darkness.

"Great," a voice muttered from the shadows behind me. "Just perfect."

The sound was a low, gravelly baritone that traveled straight up my spine, vibrating through the cold, static air of the small box. It didn't belong to a doctor. It didn't belong to any of the frail, scent-masked patients who shuffled into the university clinic. It was heavy, deep, and carried a jagged edge of pure, athletic irritation.

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

My lungs had already stopped working. The walls of the elevator, measuring exactly six feet by six feet, suddenly felt like they were collapsing inward, pressing against my ribs until my breastbone threatened to splinter. The air turned thick—hot, greasy, and completely devoid of oxygen.

Panic spiral.

I knew the clinical indicators. I'd highlighted them in yellow ink on my medical boards study sheets just three hours ago. Tachycardia. Peripheral vasoconstriction. Hyperventilating. But knowing the terminology didn't stop the black spots from exploding behind my eyelids. My fingers, slick with cold sweat, clawed at the front straps of my heavy backpack, trying to tear it off my shoulders before the weight dragged me into the floor.

"Hey," the baritone voice called out, the irritation instantly evaporating, replaced by an intense, rapid shift in focus. "You okay over there?"

I let out a short, broken gasp, my knees skyrocketing into my chest as my back slid down the brushed steel wall of the car. My shoulder hit the emergency handrail, a dull ache radiating up my neck. I couldn't pull the air past my teeth. The silence in my head was gone, replaced by a loud, roaring stadium of static that threatened to erase my consciousness entirely.

"Shit," he muttered.

Through the pitch black, I heard the heavy, structural shuffle of broad shoulders moving toward me. The stranger didn't just approach; he took over the space. The scent of him arrived first—a freezing wave of cold arena air, sharp mint, and lacing-room laundry that cut straight through the antiseptic smell of the clinic.

A massive, heavy palm landed against my shaking shoulder.

The contact was a literal jolt to my nervous system. His hand was enormous, his fingers wrapping around my deltoid with enough steady, unyielding pressure to anchor me to the moving earth. He didn't pull away when I flinched. He leaned down, his massive, broad frame blocking out the rest of the dark room until I could feel the heat radiating off his chest through the heavy cotton of his hoodie.

"Beckett," he whispered.

My mind stuttered. He knew my last name. He must have seen the embroidery on my navy blue student scrubs before the power failed, but the way he said it didn't sound like a classmate. It sounded like an order. A steady, immovable directive.

"You're having a panic attack," his voice rumbled right next to my ear, his breath warm against the cold, clammy skin of my neck. "Your system is misfiring. Listen to the sound of my breathing, Aria. Just follow the rhythm."

He took my right hand—the one that had been desperately tearing at my backpack—and forced it flat against the center of his chest.

Beneath my palm, the fabric of his hoodie was rough, but underneath it, his chest was an absolute wall of lean, dangerous athletic mass. His heart was hammering against his ribs—not with panic, but with the slow, terrifyingly steady rhythm of a first-line athlete whose adrenaline was completely under control.