The afternoon sun cast long shadows between Seattle's buildings as Isabel and Jerome patrolled their assigned sector in Unit 17. Their ambunce moved steadily through the University District, the familiar streets quiet in the lull between csses letting out.

  "Pretty calm today," Jerome observed, skillfully maneuvering around a delivery truck double-parked outside the University Book Store.

  Isabel nodded, her enhanced senses constantly monitoring their surroundings despite the routine nature of their patrol. "Sometimes quiet is good," she replied, though experience had taught her that calm periods rarely sted long in emergency services.

  They turned onto 15th Avenue, passing groups of students heading to te afternoon csses. Jerome gestured toward a new café that had opened since Isabel's return. "They've got decent coffee there, if you want to grab some after shift."

  Before Isabel could respond, the radio crackled to life: "Unit 17, respond Code 3 to a broadside collision at Market Street and Western Avenue. Two vehicles involved, unknown injuries. Cross streets Market and Western. Police and Fire not yet dispatched."

  Isabel immediately keyed her radio. "Unit 17 responding, Market and Western. ETA six minutes." Her voice carried the precise professionalism that years of service had ingrained.

  Jerome smoothly activated their lights and sirens as they turned west toward Balrd. Isabel continued gathering information: "Dispatch, Unit 17. Do we have any additional details on occupants or mechanism?"

  "Unit 17, initial report indicates full-size pickup struck a passenger vehicle broadside. Caller reports possible entrapment in smaller vehicle. Police and Fire now being dispatched."

  The ambunce moved efficiently through traffic as Jerome navigated the familiar streets. Isabel's enhanced senses were already preparing for what they might find, though she kept her outward demeanor consistent with her role as an EMT.

  "Western coming up in three blocks," Jerome announced, smoothly managing their speed as they approached the intersection.

  "Unit 17 to Dispatch, what's the ETA on Fire?" Isabel asked, knowing entrapment would require additional resources.

  "Fire is four minutes out, Unit 17. Police en route."

  The scene came into view - a Ford F-250 had struck a commuter sedan's driver's side with significant force. The smaller vehicle had been pushed partially onto the sidewalk, its frame visibly deformed by the impact. Steam rose from the pickup's damaged radiator in the cooling afternoon air.

  "Unit 17 on scene," Isabel reported. "Confirming broadside collision with major vehicle damage. Request Fire expedite for possible extrication. Beginning assessment."

  Jerome positioned the ambunce to protect the scene as Isabel gathered her equipment, her movements carefully measured to appear within normal human capabilities. The sword within her remained quiet but alert as she prepared to address whatever challenges this scene might present.

  "Unit 17, be advised: Police deyed approximately ten minutes. Engine 18 arriving in two minutes," Dispatch's update came through Isabel's radio as she approached the F-250's driver's side door.

  The pickup's front end had absorbed significant impact, its hood crumpled and steam rising steadily from the damaged radiator. The driver - a young Hispanic male in his twenties - was unconscious but breathing steadily. His designer jacket and carefully styled hair contrasted with the vehicle's weathered work truck appearance. A delicate silver chain had become entangled in the deployed airbag, leaving powder marks across his face and eborately patterned shirt. Isabel's enhanced senses detected no immediate life-threatening injuries - steady pulse, clear breath sounds, no significant bleeding.

  "Driver of the pickup is unconscious but stable," she called to Jerome, who was retrieving additional equipment from the ambunce. "Moving to the sedan."

  The sword within her stirred slightly as she approached the more severely damaged vehicle. The Honda's driver's side had catastrophically deformed, the door frame pushed inward nearly two feet. Through the spiderweb of cracked gss, she could see a young woman pinned between the crushed door and center console.

  Isabel reached through the passenger window, carefully avoiding the shattered gss. Her enhanced senses provided detailed information about the victim's condition - thready pulse, shallow breathing, significant internal injuries suggested by the mechanism of impact. The woman's business attire and university ID badge hanging from the rearview mirror indicated she was likely staff or faculty.

  "Jerome!" she called, maintaining her professional composure despite the severity of what her enhanced senses were detecting. "I need the C-colr and backboard. Patient is trapped, conscious but altered, significant chest trauma from teral impact."

  The distinctive wail of Engine 18's siren grew closer as Isabel began her initial assessment, knowing every second would count for this victim.

  The growing crowd of onlookers pressed closer to the accident scene, phones raised to capture footage of the wreckage. Jerome's voice carried across the intersection as he tried to maintain scene safety. "Everyone needs to stay back! Give us room to work!"

  Engine 18's red bulk swung into position, its diesel engine rumbling as Lieutenant Garcia stepped down from the cab. His experienced eye took in the scene in seconds - the F-250's front end buried in the sedan's crushed driver's side, the complete deformation of the smaller vehicle's safety cage, the minimal working space for extraction.

  "Mac, Johnson - get the cutters and spreaders!" he called back to the truck, already moving toward Isabel's position at the sedan. "How's our patient?"

  "Conscious but altered," Isabel reported crisply, maintaining manual cervical stabilization through the passenger window. "Significant chest trauma from teral impact. No space to access from this side - door frame is completely compromised."

  Two firefighters jogged up with the hydraulic rescue tools, their movements precise and practiced. Garcia studied the crushed metal, noting how the impact had pushed the door frame nearly to the center console. "We'll need to cut the entire driver's side away," he decided. "Going to be a delicate operation with that level of intrusion."

  The gathered crowd continued to inch forward despite Jerome's efforts. Through the growing noise, Isabel's enhanced senses detected a subtle change in the trapped woman's breathing pattern. "Patient's condition is deteriorating," she reported. "We need to move quickly."

  The distinctive whine of the hydraulic spreaders filled the air as Fire began their methodical work of creating access to their patient. Time was becoming critical, and Isabel knew that maintaining her cover as a normal EMT might soon conflict with her ability to help save this woman's life.

  The cold press of steel against her side made Isabel freeze mid-report. Her enhanced senses instantly registered the distinct shape of a semi-automatic pistol, even as her training kept her outwardly calm.

  "Everyone back," came a thickly accented voice behind her. The young man from the pickup - no longer showing any signs of his apparent unconsciousness - gripped her arm with his free hand. "Back! Now!"

  Lieutenant Garcia's eyes widened as he registered the weapon. He raised his hands slowly, signaling his team to stop their extrication work. Jerome, still trying to manage the crowd, hadn't yet noticed the situation developing behind him.

  "You drive," the man ordered Isabel, pushing her toward the ambunce. "Drive or I shoot." His English was broken but the threat was clear. Through her professional composure, Isabel felt the sword within her stir - not with bloodlust, but with tactical awareness.

  The gathering crowd finally noticed what was happening. Several people gasped and backed away, though their phones remained raised, now documenting a potential hostage situation. The firefighters stood frozen, their hydraulic tools still humming idly in their hands.

  Isabel's mind raced through scenarios. The woman in the sedan needed immediate medical attention. Every minute of dey reduced her chances of survival. But the situation demanded extreme caution - any sudden movement could result in civilian casualties from a stray bullet.

  "Okay," she said calmly, letting him guide her backward. "Let's stay calm. Nobody needs to get hurt here." Her enhanced senses tracked every micro-movement of the gunman, every subtle shift in his grip on the weapon, even as she maintained the appearance of a frightened EMT.

  Lieutenant Garcia's jaw clenched as he watched the gunman forcing Isabel backward. His hands remained raised, but every muscle in his body tensed with the instinct to intervene. Behind him, the hydraulic tools fell silent, his team frozen in a terrible moment of indecision.

  Jerome's face showed the same conflict - his eyes darting between Isabel, the gunman, and the critically injured woman still trapped in the wreckage. Years of emergency response training warred with the human impulse to help his partner.

  "Focus on her," Isabel called firmly, her voice carrying the calm authority she'd developed through years of crisis management. "The sedan driver is priority. I've got this handled." She maintained deliberate eye contact with Jerome as she spoke, willing him to understand.

  The gunman pressed the pistol harder against her side. "Shut up! Just drive!" His agitation was increasing, making the weapon wobble slightly - a detail Isabel's enhanced senses noted even as she continued her slow backward movement toward the ambunce.

  Jerome swallowed hard but gave a barely perceptible nod. He understood what Isabel was telling them - one crisis at a time, and the woman in the sedan couldn't wait. "Lieutenant," he said softly, turning back toward the crashed vehicle. "We need to move."

  Garcia hesitated for just a moment longer, his experienced eyes measuring the situation. Then his training took over. "Johnson, Mac - back to work. Fast and clean." He kept his movements slow and deliberate as he turned back to the extrication, though his shoulders remained tense with awareness of the threat behind him.

  Isabel allowed herself to be guided toward the ambunce's cab, her mind racing through options. Without an open wound, she couldn't call forth Daitenshi - the soul-eating bde that had become both her weapon and her burden. This situation would require different tactics. She'd need to handle this without revealing her true capabilities, while ensuring no civilians were caught in the crossfire.

  The gathered crowd had backed away but maintained their semicircle around the scene, phones still recording. Beyond them, Isabel's enhanced hearing picked up the distant wail of police sirens - still minutes away, and minutes she wasn't sure the sedan driver had.

  Isabel slid into the driver's seat, keeping her movements measured and compliant as the gunman climbed in beside her, the pistol never wavering from her side. Her enhanced senses tracked his elevated heart rate, the slight tremor in his hands, the faint smell of alcohol beneath his designer cologne - all indicators of his unstable state.

  "Drive, puta," he snarled, gesturing vaguely westward with his free hand. "Fast, before those pinche policía show up."

  Isabel smoothly engaged the engine, conscious of the emergency personnel still working frantically to free the sedan driver behind them. Through the side mirror, she could see Jerome and the firefighters returning to their desperate race against time, though their postures remained tense with awareness of her situation.

  She pulled away from the accident scene, leaving the lights and sirens off as commanded. The ambunce moved steadily through traffic, its white bulk drawing less attention without emergency signals activated. Her captor kept the weapon pressed against her ribs, punctuating his directions with a stream of bilingual threats and insults.

  "Faster, pendeja," he growled, though his English seemed to improve slightly with the immediate pressure of the crash scene behind them. "You think I won't shoot? Turn left here."

  Isabel guided the ambunce through the city streets, every block taking them further from potential civilian casualties. Her enhanced senses monitored his vital signs, tracking the subtle shifts in his stance that would telegraph any change in intent. The stench of fear beneath his aggressive posturing grew stronger as they moved deeper into the industrial district.

  "You picked the wrong day to py hero, gringa," he muttered, the pistol trembling slightly against her side. "Just keep driving."

  The sword within her remained alert but patient, sharing her tactical assessment of the situation. They would only need a few more blocks before she could act without risk to civilians. Then she would show this man the error of his judgment - not as Isabel the EMT, but as something far more dangerous.

  Through the busy streets of Seattle's industrial district, Isabel tracked their movement with predatory patience. Her enhanced senses monitored both her increasingly agitated captor and the surrounding environment, waiting for the perfect moment to act.

  The opportunity presented itself as they approached a rare empty intersection - no pedestrians, minimal traffic, and solid concrete barriers that would contain any chaos. In one fluid motion, Isabel jerked the wheel hard right while smming the transmission into park. The ambunce lurched violently, its bulk skidding into the curb with a screech of protesting tires.

  The sudden stop threw her captor off bance. His finger reflexively squeezed the trigger, and the pistol's report filled the cab. The round tore through Isabel's side, but instead of recoiling in pain or fear, she turned toward him with deliberate, predatory grace. Her eyes held an ancient, terrible knowledge as she let him see exactly what he had attempted to threaten.

  "Dios mío," he gasped, true fear repcing his manufactured bravado. The pistol barked twice more, the rounds punching through her torso with little effect. Isabel's lips pulled back in a snarl that contained nothing human, her transformation from healer to warrior evident in every line of her body.

  The bde within her resonated with controlled violence, even though it couldn't manifest without spilled blood. But Isabel had other means of dealing with those who threatened her mission of protection. Her enhanced capabilities, coupled with years of intense combat training, meant she didn't need Daitenshi's edge to handle one frightened man with a gun.

  Isabel's hand shot out with inhuman speed, her fingers closing around the pistol with crushing force. Metal groaned as her grip deformed the slide, rendering the weapon useless even as she tore it from his grasp. His eyes widened in terror as he registered the impossible strength in her seemingly slight frame.

  "No, no, por favor," he stammered, trying to scramble backward in the confined space of the cab. The facade of the tough criminal evaporated, leaving only raw fear as he confronted something beyond his understanding.

  Isabel's other hand closed on his designer jacket, the material bunching in her grip as she pulled him forward. "You threatened my ability to save lives," she snarled, her voice carrying otherworldly harmonics that made him whimper. The first impact against the door made the entire ambunce rock slightly.

  "I am a healer," she growled, punctuating each word with another sm against the cab's interior. The door panel began to deform under the repeated impacts. "I protect people." Another impact. "And you made me leave someone who needed help."

  Blood trickled from his nose, his carefully styled hair now matted against his forehead as he tried weakly to protect himself. "Please," he gasped between impacts, "I didn't know—"

  "No," Isabel cut him off, holding him pinned against the now-dented door. "You didn't know. You thought you were threatening a normal EMT. Someone who couldn't fight back." Her voice carried the weight of years spent facing far more dangerous adversaries than this frightened criminal.

  With practiced precision honed through years of combat, Isabel's free hand moved to her belt. The folding knife appeared in her grip, its bde glinting in the te afternoon light filtering through the cab windows. Before he could react, she drove the bde upward under his rib cage with surgical accuracy. The knife found its mark, puncturing his lung with calcuted efficiency.

  His eyes widened in shock and pain as she withdrew the bde. A wet, sucking sound accompanied each panicked breath he tried to take. The fierce protector within her knew this wound would incapacitate without being immediately fatal - a calcuted decision born from years of experience.

  "That," she said with cold precision, "is so you understand the consequences of threatening those who help others." Her voice carried none of the compassion she typically showed as an EMT. This was the warrior speaking, the one who had faced far worse threats across dimensions.

  Blood began to spread across his designer shirt as his breathing became increasingly bored. Isabel's enhanced senses monitored his vital signs, ensuring the wound would achieve its intended purpose without crossing the line into lethality. She had been both healer and warrior long enough to know exactly where that line y.

  Isabel dragged her assaint to the back of the ambunce, his bored breathing echoing in the confined space. His designer clothes left crimson streaks across the floor as she hauled him onto the stretcher with methodical efficiency. The healer in her took over, even as the warrior remained vigint.

  Her uniform was torn and bloodied from the three gunshot wounds - entry points that would have been fatal to any normal human. But Isabel was far from normal. As she worked, her enhanced physiology was already hard at work. The bullet holes began to close with remarkable speed, cells knitting together beneath the torn fabric. Microscopic regenerative processes accelerated, pushing out bullet fragments, sealing tissue, and rebuilding damaged cells in a matter of moments.

  Her movements were precise as she cut away his blood-soaked shirt, quickly assessing the pneumothorax she had deliberately created. The wound beneath his rib cage bubbled with each desperate attempt to breathe. Her enhanced senses monitored his deteriorating oxygen saturation as she efficiently prepared her equipment.

  "This is going to keep you alive," she informed him clinically, preparing the chest seal with practiced motions. "Though you don't deserve the consideration." The occlusive dressing went on with expert precision, her movements betraying years of medical experience far beyond her apparent age.

  His eyes remained wide with terror as she worked, his gaze fixed on the now-healing bullet holes in her uniform. Where moments ago there had been gaping wounds, only faint, rapidly disappearing marks remained - a detail that seemed to terrify him more than the initial shooting. Isabel ignored his fear, focusing instead on stabilizing his condition. She reached for the ketamine, measuring the dose with careful accuracy.

  "This will help you rest," she said, administering the injection with the same clinical detachment she'd shown while stabbing him. As the sedative took effect, his eyes began to gze over, the panic finally fading from his features.

  The sword within her hummed with quiet approval - justice had been served, yet mercy was being shown. It was a bance Isabel had learned to maintain through years of walking the line between healer and warrior.

  With methodical precision, Isabel wiped the weapon's exterior, then deliberately pressed the unconscious suspect's fingers against the grip and trigger area, ensuring his fingerprints were prominently reestablished on the firearm. In a calcuted motion, she let the weapon drop to the ambunce's floor, allowing it to nd in a way that would appear natural yet strategically positioned.

  Her personal medical kit contained a backup uniform shirt - a standard precaution for emergency medical technicians who might encounter messy or hazardous situations during a shift. With practiced efficiency, she stripped off her blood-soaked and bullet-torn shirt. Her rapidly healing skin showed only faint, nearly invisible marks where the bullets had penetrated moments before.

  The fresh shirt went on smoothly, crisp and unmarked. She carefully folded the damaged uniform, ensuring any trace evidence would be contained. Her enhanced senses continued monitoring the sedated patient, confirming his continued stability while simultaneously tracking the incoming sounds of approaching emergency vehicles.

  The dropped weapon would serve multiple purposes: it would provide a clear narrative of the suspect's actions, potentially implicate him in the original theft and assault, and simultaneously obscure her own involvement in neutralizing the threat. Her professional EMT uniform and the stabilized patient would reinforce her story of a routine medical intervention.

  Isabel stepped out of the ambunce, her newly changed uniform crisp and professional. Her voice carried the authoritative tone of an experienced first responder as she addressed the gathering crowd.

  "Everyone needs to clear the area," she commanded, her stance projecting both professional confidence and a subtle hint of controlled urgency. "Emergency scene. Please move back and allow first responders to work."

  A police cruiser pulled up, its lights casting blue and red reflections across the surrounding buildings. Its arrival was the predictable result of her earlier dispatch communication - a standard protocol response to her earlier radio call about a suspect in custody and the need for backup.

  Her enhanced senses tracked the officers' approach, already assessing their body nguage and preparing for the inevitable interrogation. The injured suspect remained sedated in the back of the ambunce, the gun strategically positioned to tell a specific narrative about the incident.

  Isabel positioned herself to intercept the approaching officers, her professional demeanor carefully maintained. The sword within her remained alert but contained, a silent guardian watching every potential avenue of complexity.

  The police cruiser had pulled up with practiced precision. The driver's side door opened first, and a Hispanic officer in his mid-thirties emerged - early career, muscur build, tactical stance suggesting recent military or high-intensity police training. He moved with deliberate caution, left hand near his holster, right hand extended outward in a partially open gesture that could quickly transition to a defensive position.

  His partner, a stockier white officer, remained seated and positioned the driver's side door as a tactical shield. From this position, he created a crossfire angle, providing cover for his partner while maintaining a clear line of sight. His hands were already resting near his weapon, finger positioned carefully outside the trigger guard - a standard defensive posture for a potentially votile scene.

  The first officer's voice carried a professional mix of concern and authority. "Ma'am, are you alright?" His eyes rapidly scanned Isabel, the ambunce, and the surrounding area, assessing potential threats while seeking initial information.

  Isabel met his gaze with the calm professionalism of an experienced EMT. Her posture was open and rexed, designed to communicate cooperation and minimal threat. "I'm fine," she responded crisply. "We had a situation with an assault suspect who attempted to hijack the ambunce during a medical emergency. I managed to stabilize and detain him until backup could arrive."

  Her enhanced senses tracked every micro-movement of the officers - the tension in their muscles, the slight adjustments of their grip, the minute shifts in their breathing.

  The Hispanic officer's hand remained near his holster as he prompted, "I need you to walk me through exactly what happened. Start from the beginning."

  Isabel maintained her professional composure, her voice steady and clinical. "The suspect had his weapon pointed at me the entire time. When he first hijacked the ambunce, he threatened me with a direct line of fire, maintaining constant pressure with the firearm. When he fired, the rounds were at point-bnk range, directly targeting me."

  She continued with precise details, "I was able to deflect and redirect the shots upward, causing them to impact the office building. During the confrontation, I used my personal safety knife - the type we carry to cut through seatbelts or clothing in emergency extrications - to neutralize the immediate threat. I inflicted a wound that could have punctured his lung to stop his attack."

  Her tone remained matter-of-fact, presenting the information as a series of tactical, defensive decisions. "I've since stabilized him medically. He's currently sedated with ketamine and restrained in the back of the ambunce. However, he requires immediate surgical intervention for the potential lung injury. He needs to be transported to the ER as soon as possible to address the potential pneumothorax."

  The officer's posture shifted slightly, his initial high-alert stance softening as he processed her professionally delivered account. Her narrative presented a clear, defensive sequence of actions that aligned with standard w enforcement expectations for self-defense and medical professional protocol.

  The officer studied her carefully, then asked, "Is the patient stable enough to wait for another ambunce to arrive, or is his condition critical enough that he needs immediate transport to the hospital?"

  Isabel assessed the patient with her enhanced medical senses, carefully evaluating the severity of his condition. "The lung puncture requires immediate surgical intervention," she responded professionally. "Waiting for another ambunce could compromise the patient's survival. The pneumothorax is actively destabilizing, and every minute of dey increases the risk of critical complications. We need to transport immediately to the nearest trauma center."

  Her clinical tone conveyed both the urgency and the medical precision of her assessment. The subtle details her enhanced senses detected - the way the lung was colpsing, the subtle changes in oxygen saturation, the potential for rapid deterioration - informed her recommendation, though she presented it in standard medical terminology that would be consistent with a typical paramedic's professional evaluation.

  "This is a time-critical situation," she concluded, her professional demeanor underscoring the medical necessity of immediate transport.

  The Hispanic officer nodded, his professional assessment matching Isabel's medical urgency. "I'll escort you to the hospital," he stated firmly. "Given this is a shooting incident, we'll need to maintain police oversight of the suspect."

  Isabel agreed, reaching for her radio. "I'll need to inform dispatch about our change in transport protocol," she said. Her fingers keyed the mic with practiced efficiency. "Dispatch, this is Unit 17. Transporting shooting suspect to trauma center with police escort. Requesting update to current incident protocol."

  As the radio acknowledgment came through, she turned back to the officer. "There's one additional matter," Isabel added, her tone professional and direct. "The suspect's firearm is currently on the floor of the ambunce. For proper chain of custody, I'd prefer you confiscate it. I haven't handled the weapon since the incident, and I want to ensure clean forensic documentation."

  The radio buzzed, and a familiar voice from dispatch cut through the static. "Izzy? You okay? We heard about the hijacking."

  She couldn't help a slight smile at the personal touch behind the professional inquiry. "I'm good, Sarah," Isabel responded, using the dispatcher's first name. "Suspect's secure and we're heading to Harborview. Bringing him in with a police escort."

  There was a pause, then Sarah's voice softened. "Jerome must be going crazy. Want me to let him know you're alright?"

  "Please," Isabel replied, appreciating the genuine concern. "And can you update him on the full situation?"

  The radio crackled with Sarah's acknowledgment, another yer of human connection overying the clinical emergency response protocol. Isabel appreciated these moments - the personal touches that reminded her of the community she served, even as she navigated the more extraordinary aspects of her existence.

  Isabel guided the ambunce through Seattle's streets with practiced efficiency, the police cruiser's lights reflecting in her rearview mirror. Her movements were smooth, professional, bancing the need for speed with the delicate condition of her patient.

  Harborview Medical Center's emergency entrance materialized ahead. She radioed ahead, giving a concise report of the incoming patient - male, mid-twenties, pneumothorax, potential surgical intervention required. Her professional tone masked the earlier intensity of the encounter.

  As she backed the ambunce into the trauma bay, her supervisor, Lieutenant Sullivan, was already waiting. His experienced eyes scanned her, looking for any signs of distress or injury. The handoff to the trauma team was swift and precise - her report detailing the patient's condition, the mechanism of injury, and immediate interventions.

  Sullivan pulled her aside while the medical team worked. "Walk me through what happened," he said quietly, his tone a mix of concern and professional inquiry.

  Isabel provided a clear, straightforward account - the hijacking, the threat, her defensive actions. She was careful to emphasize the patient's medical needs and her primary focus on preserving life, even in the face of a direct threat.

  The police officers who had escorted her were already conferring with hospital security, beginning the process of establishing custody and collecting initial statements. The weapon had been turned over to evidence collection, its presence a silent testament to the incident's complexity.

  Sullivan’s gaze swept over the ambunce, his professional demeanor momentarily breaking as he stared at the windshield. A half-dozen distinct bullet holes punctured the tempered gss, spider-webbing the transparent surface with intricate fracture patterns. Each hole told a story of near-fatal impact.

  He turned back to Isabel, disbelief etching his features. "How are you even standing here?" The question came out more as a whispered marvel than an official inquiry.

  Isabel met his look with her characteristic calm. "Professional training," she said simply, though both knew there was far more to the story.

  Her supervisor's eyes traced the bullet holes again, then back to her unharmed form. The silent exchange acknowledged something extraordinary, yet Isabel's professional composure never wavered. The incident would generate significant paperwork, statements, and likely an internal review - but in this moment, Sullivan seemed more struck by her inexplicable survival than any procedural concerns.

  Sullivan pulled out his phone and made a quick call to dispatch, arranging for a tow truck to collect the damaged ambunce. "Can't have a unit with bullet holes rolling around the city," he muttered, more to himself than to Isabel.

  He turned back to her. "I'll give you a ride back to the station. We need to get your official statement while everything's fresh." His tone made it clear this wasn't a request.

  Isabel nodded, collecting her personal items from the ambunce. The vehicle that had been her workpce and sanctuary now looked vulnerable - shattered gss telling a story of violence narrowly survived. Sullivan's car would provide a quiet moment to decompress, to transition from the intense field scenario back to standard protocol.

  As they walked toward his vehicle, Sullivan's professional curiosity was evident. The bullet-riddled ambunce would generate more than a few questions, and Isabel knew the coming debrief would require all of her carefully constructed professional composure.

  The station's administrative area hummed with typical te-afternoon activity as Isabel typed her incident report, fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard. Each keystroke transted the morning's extraordinary events into precise, official documentation.

  The door opened and Jerome entered, his face still haunted by the memory of moments earlier. He had been right there when the hijacking occurred, witnessing the suspect's sudden threat, seeing the gun pressed against Isabel's side.

  "Izzy," he said, his voice raw with the remembered tension. "When that guy grabbed you, when I heard about how he started firing..." He stopped, unable to fully articute the moment.

  Isabel continued typing, gncing up briefly. "I'm fine, Jerome. We're both fine."

  He stared at her, disbelief evident. "Those bullets were point-bnk. I know what happened. How are you even sitting here?" His hands gripped the back of her chair, knuckles white with residual stress.

  Her mind fshed momentarily to the bloodied uniform top she'd carefully folded away. If only you knew, she thought. The sword within her remained silent, a hidden guardian of her most extraordinary secrets.

  "Professional training," she said simply, a phrase that had become her standard deflection. "Sometimes luck is on your side."

  Isabel saved her report, the digital file capturing the official narrative of the morning's events. She turned to Jerome, her attention shifting away from her own experience.

  "You had the harder job today," she said, her voice softening. "The crash victim in the sedan - that was the real hero's work. Her condition was critical."

  Jerome shook his head, uncomfortable with the praise. "You're the one who survived a hijacking," he countered, his voice tinged with lingering concern. "I just did what we always do."

  Isabel's gaze drifted to the window, watching the lengthening shadows of te afternoon stretch across the parking lot. The sword within her stirred gently, sharing her contemption of the day's events. It wasn't just about surviving the hijacking - it was about maintaining the delicate bance between her extraordinary capabilities and her chosen role as a healer.

  "How did it go?" Isabel asked, turning back to Jerome. "After I... after he took the ambunce. The sedan driver?"

  Jerome's expression was a mix of exhaustion and professional satisfaction. Having ridden in with the backup unit, he'd seen the case through to its conclusion. "We got her out. Garcia's team did amazing work with the extrication. Twelve minutes from starting the cut to having her free." He ran a hand through his hair, still looking drained from the intensity of the double emergency. "She was critical but stable when we got her to Harborview. Went straight to the OR."

  A quiet satisfaction settled over Isabel. This was why she continued her work as an EMT, even with all her enhanced abilities and the constant presence of Daitenshi. The sword might make her a formidable warrior, but her true power y in protecting life, not taking it.

  "You did good work," she said softly. "Keeping focus when everything went sideways with the hijacking. That couldn't have been easy."

  Jerome slumped in his chair, the adrenaline crash evident in his posture. "I almost lost it when he pulled that gun. But when you called out - told us to focus on her..." He shook his head. "You were so damn calm. Even with that weapon in your ribs."

  The sword within her stirred at the memory, but Isabel kept her expression neutral. "The crash victim needed you more. One crisis at a time - that's what we're trained for."

  The door opened and Lieutenant Sullivan stepped in, his weathered face carrying the weight of the day's events. "Isabel," he said, his tone professionally neutral. "The police want to do a follow-up interview about the shooting incident." He gnced at the incident report on her screen. "There are some... details they'd like to crify."

  Of course there were details to crify. The bullet holes in the ambunce told one story, while her unharmed presence told another. The sword within her remained calm - they had handled far more complex situations than this.

  "I'll be sitting in," Sullivan added, making it clear this wasn't optional. "As your supervisor, I need to ensure all protocols were followed." His eyes carried a hint of something deeper - protection, perhaps, or understanding. It wasn't the first time Sullivan had run interference for her, though they never openly discussed why.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The gravel crunched under Isabel's tires as she pulled into Alex's property, the te afternoon sun casting long shadows between the buildings. Her enhanced senses picked up the subtle hum of Rose's technology even before she reached the converted barn - a sound masked from normal human hearing by carefully calibrated dampening fields.

  Mrs. Henderson's blinds twitched as Isabel parked. She offered a polite wave toward the window, maintaining the careful image of just another visitor to Alex's "workshop." Her paramedic bag felt heavy against her shoulder as she approached the side entrance, though the weight had nothing to do with its contents and everything to do with the day's events.

  The sophisticated security systems recognized her immediately, the door opening to reveal the HQ's true interior. Inside, Elena was perched on one of the workbenches, her reading gsses slipping down her nose as she gestured animatedly while speaking to Tori. "So you could say this transformation really gave you a new TAIL-ent for adaptability?" Her grin suggested she was quite proud of that one.

  Tori, no longer hiding her transformed state, actually ughed - a sound that made Isabel pause. It was good to hear genuine mirth from someone who'd been struggling so hard with their changes.

  Hazel looked up from her monitoring station, her fingers never stopping their dance across holographic interfaces. "Rough day?" she asked, though her tone suggested she'd already reviewed the incident reports.

  "You could say that," Isabel replied, letting some of her careful composure slip away as she set down her bag. Here, she didn't have to maintain the precise facade of a normal EMT. Here, she could just be herself - enhanced abilities, ancient sword, and all.

  Hazel's fingers paused their intricate dance across the holographic dispys. "No cameras in the ambunce cabin," she said matter-of-factly. "What exactly happened in there?"

  Isabel reached into her paramedic bag and pulled out the carefully folded uniform top, letting it unfold to reveal the full extent of the damage. Three distinct bullet holes marked the fabric, the bloodstains around each telling a clear story of point-bnk shots. The material was stiff with dried blood, though Isabel's enhanced healing had left no corresponding wounds on her body.

  "Oh shit," Elena breathed, her gsses slipping further down her nose as she leaned forward for a better look. For once, she seemed to have run out of puns.

  Tori moved closer, her metallic silver-gold hair catching the workshop lights as she studied the ruined uniform. Her own experiences with transformation gave her a unique appreciation for what the damage implied. "Three shots? Point-bnk?"

  "He wasn't very happy when I wouldn't cooperate," Isabel said simply, though the sword within her stirred at the memory. "Had to maintain appearances long enough to get clear of civilians. Then..." She gestured at the uniform. "Well, he learned some things about making assumptions."

  Hazel studied the uniform with analytical precision, her eyes tracking the bullet trajectories. "The police reports mention deflected shots," she noted. "I'm guessing that's not quite what happened?"

  Isabel's lips curved into a predatory grin - one that made Elena shift slightly on her workbench, her scientific curiosity warring with more primitive instincts. It was the kind of smile that belonged to an apex predator, one that had just cornered its prey.

  Hazel's answering grin matched it perfectly, her own dangerous nature showing through her technical facade. The two women shared a moment of perfect understanding - both knew exactly what happened to people who made the mistake of assuming they were dealing with normal humans.

  Tori observed from her position near the monitoring station, her tall frame casting elongated shadows in the workshop lighting. Though the HQ had become something of a sanctuary these past weeks, allowing her to exist without the strain of maintaining holographic disguises, she still held herself with careful restraint. Years of hiding her transformed state had left deep-seated habits that even this safe space hadn't fully dissolved.

  "Point-bnk," Isabel confirmed, her grin never wavering. "He learned about assuming the hard way."

  Elena pushed her gsses up, gncing between Isabel and Hazel's matching expressions. Her scientific background hadn't quite prepared her for these moments when her colleagues' more dangerous natures emerged, but she was adapting - cataloging each new revetion with professional fascination rather than fear.

  Isabel let the ruined uniform drop onto the workbench, the stiffened fabric making a dull thud against the metal surface. "The deflection story was necessary. After I subdued him, I used his weapon to create the evidence - shots through the windshield and passenger window at the right angles." Her hand traced the bullet holes in the uniform. "Sullivan and the others think I just got lucky, managed to deflect his aim during the struggle. A week of administrative leave ter, and they will just be gd to have me back on duty."

  "Clean work," Hazel noted, her fingers bringing up holographic data streams of the police reports. "They've documented everything exactly as you staged it. The trajectory analysis supports your cover story perfectly." A slight smirk pyed at her lips. "Even the powder residue tells the story you wanted them to read."

  Elena leaned forward, her scientific curiosity overtaking any lingering unease. "So even your Lieutenant has no idea? He just thinks you had an incredibly lucky escape?" Her gsses slipped down her nose as she studied the uniform with new appreciation.

  "That's the point," Isabel expined, the sword's presence humming quietly within her. "As far as the station is concerned, I'm just a dedicated EMT who managed to survive a bad situation and can’t wait to get back to work. The less they know, the safer everyone is."

  Tori shifted her weight, drawing herself up to her full height for a moment before catching herself and settling back into her more contained posture. "At least you can go back. The university..." She trailed off, her metallic hair catching the light as she shook her head.

  Elena reached up to pce a gentle hand on Tori's shoulder, her scientific demeanor softening with genuine empathy. "The holo emitter is working perfectly fine. You can continue your studies if you want." She adjusted her gsses with her free hand. "But if you decide to follow Rose's path and withdraw, we're all here to support that decision too."

  "The benefits of a found family," Isabel added quietly, her earlier predatory demeanor repced by genuine warmth. "No judgment, just support." The sword within her stirred in agreement, its presence a comforting hum that seemed to resonate with the moment's sincerity.

  Hazel's fingers paused their dance across the holographic dispys, her attention shifting fully to Tori. Though she maintained her professional composure, there was understanding in her eyes. They all knew the weight of living between worlds, of maintaining facades that grew heavier with each passing day.

  "I haven't decided yet," Tori admitted, unconsciously straightening to her full height under the supportive atmosphere. "But thank you. All of you." Her metallic hair caught the workshop lights as she looked around at her companions, a small smile pying at her transformed features. "It helps, being here. Being able to just... be."

  Elena's hand lingered supportively on Tori's shoulder as the conversation settled into a comfortable quiet. These moments at the HQ - where they could simply exist as themselves - were precious precisely because they were so rare.

  Isabel began carefully folding her ruined uniform, her movements precise and methodical. The day's events had taken their toll, even if her enhanced healing had erased the physical evidence. Sometimes the weight of maintaining appearances was heavier than any injury.

  A sharp tone cut through the peaceful atmosphere. Hazel's posture shifted instantly, her fingers flying across the holographic dispys with renewed urgency. The comfortable warmth in her expression vanished, repced by focused intensity.

  "Police dispatch recording," she announced, her voice clipped and professional. "Major gang confrontation reported in South Park. Multiple casualties." Her eyes narrowed as she processed the incoming data. "SPD is reporting... unusual characteristics to the assault. The responding officers' communications suggest this isn't a typical territorial dispute."

  Isabel felt Daitenshi stir within her, the sword's energy responding to the implied threat. Their earlier conversation about staged evidence and covered identities suddenly felt very distant compared to what the police channels were describing.

  Hazel's fingers paused over a particur data stream, her expression growing grave. "You need to see this," she said quietly, expanding the feed to dispy grainy security footage from a nearby warehouse. The images showed something that no conventional gang conflict could expin.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  End Chapter

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