Emergency Protocol: The Bloody Tulip – Part 17.5

In “Blood Ties,” consciousness returns to Dima like fractured sunlight, only to find herself ensnared in a trap of her own making. As dark revelations spill forth between captive and captor, the truth about Dr. Lecter’s legacy emerges through whispered confessions. Each blood-resin bead on Ayuna’s bracelet tells a story of surgical precision and calculated violence, while the truth about Frank’s convenient “stroke” casts a shadow over Gabriel’s miraculous heart transplant. Outside, beneath gathering storm clouds, Olivia’s discovery comes too late – her phone’s screen shattering like the last fragments of normalcy as Ayuna emerges from the shadows, surgical steel gleaming with deadly purpose in the moonlight.

You Shouldn’t be here

Thunder rolled overhead as Ayuna stepped fully into the light. The surgical steel in her hand gleamed with familiar purpose, but it was her eyes that froze Olivia in place – there was something ancient in them, something hungry. Recognition flickered across Ayuna’s face as their gazes locked, predator and prey caught in a moment of terrible understanding.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Ayuna hissed, her voice carrying the chill of surgical steel. “You have no idea how dangerous—”

Wind whipped through the trees, casting shifting shadows across Olivia’s face. For a moment, Ayuna saw her as father would have – anatomical planes perfectly highlighted by moonlight, carotid artery pulsing beneath delicate skin, intercostal spaces exposed by her defensive posture. The surgical assessment came automatically, years of training impossible to suppress.

How easy it would be, she thought, her grip adjusting on the scalpel with practiced precision. One clean cut, just like father taught us. No witnesses, no complications. The blood-resin beads of her bracelet clicked softly against each other, each one a reminder of similar choices made in similar moments.

“What is going on here?” Olivia demanded, interrupting Ayuna’s warning, her voice stronger than she felt. “I heard you talking about Gabriel. Why does she want to hurt him?”

Gabriel’s name cut through Ayuna’s clinical detachment like a dull blade. The monster inside her recoiled, remembering warm embraces and gentle kisses, movie nights and shared dreams of a normal future. The scalpel trembled almost imperceptibly in her hand.

Ayuna lowered her weapon, fighting against years of conditioning that screamed at her to eliminate the threat. The security light caught the blade as it descended, reflecting like lightning across its polished surface. Dead leaves crunched beneath her feet as she shifted her stance, moving from predator to… something else. Something trying to remember how to be human.

“This is more complicated than you can imagine.” Ayuna’s grip tightened on the scalpel, muscle memory warring with conscious choice. Her other hand unconsciously found her bracelet, fingers tracing the familiar contours of preserved moments. “What I’m doing here is to protect Gabriel. Now please, Olivia, you need to—”

Medical Horror

A crash from inside the house cut through the night air. Ayuna’s eyes widened in understanding. “No,” she breathed, already moving toward the door. Olivia, against every instinct screaming at her to run, followed.

They burst into the bedroom to find the restraints empty, the sheets twisted like abandoned bandages, still warm from Dima’s body heat. The air carried the mingled scents of antiseptic and fear, thick enough to taste. Neither woman heard Dima’s approach until it was too late – her movements silent as death itself, precise as a scalpel’s first cut.

“Such a touching reunion.” Dima’s arm snaked around Olivia’s throat with the fluid efficiency of a tourniquet being applied, another scalpel – a Number 10 blade, Olivia’s mind registered absurdly – pressed against her fifth intercostal space. The cold steel dimpled her skin through her thin blouse, promising pain with surgical accuracy. “My flower, you’ve grown sloppy. Letting outsiders into our private gallery?”

The brass lamps cast their shadows in triplicate across the crimson sheets, a macabre dance of predator and prey. The Queen of the Night tulips trembled in their vase, dark petals falling like drops of old blood onto the hardwood floor.

“This is between us,” Ayuna’s voice carried the steady calm of an attending surgeon calling for suction during a complex procedure. Her fingers flexed around her own scalpel – a matching Number 10 – the motion as natural as a heartbeat. “Let her go.” Each word was measured, precise, like marking incision lines on pristine skin. “You remember what father taught us about precision, Dima. About unnecessary complications.” Her eyes never left Dima’s face, searching for any sign of the girl she once knew beneath the monster she’d become. “Clean cuts. No mess. This is getting messy, Dima, let her go.”

Olivia felt Dima’s pulse against her back, rapid but controlled – a surgeon’s heart rate during a difficult procedure. The blade’s pressure increased fractionally, finding the exact spot between her ribs where minimum force would yield maximum damage.

“Oh, but I can’t do that.” Dima’s breath was hot against Olivia’s ear, carrying the metallic tang of surgical masks and old blood. The scalpel traced a delicate line across Olivia’s ribs, not cutting, just promising – like marking guidelines before the first incision. “You may try to do something heroic.” Her laugh was soft, intimate, the sound a doctor makes when sharing secrets in surgical theaters. “I’ve been thinking, Ayuna, your father would have been disappointed seeing us like this. And you’ve put us at risk.” Each word carried the weight of preserved specimens in pine resin. “Letting outsiders peek behind the curtain of our little operating theater.”

“Look at you,” Dima continued, her voice taking on a teacher’s disappointed tone. “Playing house with Gabriel, pretending to be normal. The great Dr. Hartman, respected surgeon.” She spat the last words like poison. “But we both know what you really are. What you did to Frank proves it. You’re still performing our special surgeries, just… hiding them behind legitimate ones. Avoiding your calling, your legacy.”

Ayuna’s mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something ancient and dangerous. “You don’t know anything about me anymore, Dima.”

“Don’t I?” Dima’s smile widened. “I know you still collect your trophies. I know you still feel that rush when the scalpel first breaks the skin. I know you dream about our time with Father.” The scalpel pressed slightly harder against Olivia’s ribs. “Tell me, does Gabriel know about your little bracelet collection? About Frank? About any of it?”

“Dima, just let her go and leave.” Ayuna took a careful step forward, her movements measured like approaching a cornered animal. “Get out of South Florida and leave us alone.” Her voice carried an edge of desperation beneath its professional calm. “We can both disappear. Start fresh. Isn’t that what father would have wanted?”

“What father would have wanted?” Dima’s laugh was sharp as a scalpel. “Father would have wanted you to embrace what you are, not play pretend with some man whose heart you had to steal to save.” She pressed her cheek against Olivia’s temple, eyes locked on Ayuna. “Remember what he used to say? ‘Normal is a mask worn by monsters to hide in plain sight.’ You’re wearing that mask so well, aren’t you, my flower?”

Olivia felt Dima’s grip tighten as she spoke, the words coming faster now, more fevered. “But I see you, Ayuna. I see the real you beneath that mask. The girl who stood beside me in father’s special operating room, learning his techniques, perfecting our art.”

“I will leave, Ayuna,” Dima purred, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But not until Gabriel is dead and you’re mine again. Only then will everything be perfect.” Her eyes gleamed with a fanatic light. “We’ll honor father’s memory properly – together. The way it should be. No more pretending. No more masks. Just us, our scalpels, and our art.”

The scalpel moved with the practiced precision of countless procedures, finding the exact space between Olivia’s fifth and sixth ribs. The blade slipped through tissue with terrifying ease – epidermis, dermis, and intercostal muscles parting like layers in a textbook illustration. Olivia’s gasp of pain seemed to echo in the suddenly silent room, the sound raw and primal against the clinical efficiency of her injury. The warmth of blood bloomed across her shirt like spilled surgical betadine, copper-scented and sickeningly warm.

Dima was gone before Olivia’s knees hit the hardwood floor, her footsteps fading into the night like the last breaths of a failed procedure. The only evidence of her presence was the growing crimson stain and the lingering scent of antiseptic mixed with copper.

Olivia collapsed against the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Fear clouded her eyes as she watched Ayuna approach, the scalpel still gleaming in her hand. “Please,” she whispered, “I don’t want to die.”

Ayuna dropped to her knees beside Olivia, years of surgical training taking over. “You won’t. Not if I can help it.” Her hands moved swiftly, assessing the wound. “Stay with me, Olivia.”

“Do you…” Olivia coughed, wincing at the pain. “Do you really love Gabriel that much? Enough to kill for him?”

The monster inside Ayuna stirred at the question as she answered without hesitation, her voice carrying the weight of every dark deed she’d ever committed. “I would do anything for Gabriel.”

“I see that now.” Blood trickled from the corner of Olivia’s mouth. “I thought… I thought you would hurt him.”

Ayuna’s fingers worked quickly, ripping Olivia’s shirt for better access to the wound. The clinical precision of her movements contrasted sharply with the raw emotion in her voice. “I would never hurt Gabriel. All I wanted was to love him and be loved by him.”

“Ayuna,” Olivia’s voice grew weaker, “he will probably see the signs and ignore them because he cares about you. Promise you won’t hurt him.” Another cough wracked her body, more blood staining her lips.

“Olivia, you must save your strength and let me try to help yo—”

“Promise me, Ayuna!” The desperate strength in Olivia’s voice surprised them both. “I probably won’t make it. I need to hear you say it.”

Ayuna’s hands stilled for a moment, bloody fingers hovering over the wound. Her voice softened, revealing a vulnerability she rarely showed. “I promise, Olivia. I don’t know why, I just want to be next to him. Maybe it’s the way he cares for me, or the way he touches me, the way he holds me and shines light onto my darkness. Whatever it is, I just want him to be safe and happy.”

“Good…” Olivia’s eyes fluttered closed, her head lolling to the side as consciousness slipped away.

Ayuna moved with practiced efficiency, her surgical instincts taking over as she assessed the wound. The blade had slipped between Olivia’s fifth and sixth ribs – a perfect intercostal entry, just as she and Dima had been taught. Blood pulsed from the wound with each heartbeat, too much blood. Too precise.

“Tension pneumothorax developing,” she muttered, her fingers probing the wound with familiar precision. The same precision she’d used on Frank, on others. Her blood-resin bracelet clicked softly as she worked, each bead a reminder of past “procedures.”

She grabbed a pen from her pocket, dismantling it with practiced ease. “Crude chest tube,” she whispered, the muscle memory of a hundred clandestine surgeries guiding her hands. The makeshift drain slipped between Olivia’s ribs as perfectly as Dima’s scalpel had moments before.

Air hissed through the tube – a sound both relieving and haunting. How many times had she heard that same sound in father’s special operating room?

Her fingers moved automatically, checking vital signs. Pulse thready, blood pressure dropping. The wound was a masterpiece of anatomical precision – Dima’s signature work. Part of her admired the technique even as she fought to reverse its effects.

Emergency Protocol

Reaching for her phone, Ayuna started to identify herself, then caught herself. “This is a doctor at 1247 Weston Drive,” she barked, applying pressure around the improvised chest tube. “Female, early thirties, single stab wound to the left thoracic cavity with probable cardiac tamponade. Requiring immediate surgical intervention.” Her voice dropped urgently. “Listen carefully – you must get a message to Dr. Talia Hartman at Cleveland Clinic. Tell her ‘bloody flower fields.’ Do you understand? She is this woman’s only hope.”

The dispatch operator’s voice crackled with confusion. “Ma’am, I need your name—”

“Just get that message to Dr. Hartman. Now.”

In the surgical wing of Cleveland Clinic, Talia Hartman’s phone buzzed. The text message was brief: “Emergency Dispatch Relay: ‘Bloody Flower Fields.’ 1247 Weston Drive. Stabbing victim. Emergency unit en route.”

Talia froze, the words “Bloody Flower Fields” echoing in her mind. Her fingers trembled as she hit the call button on the intercom. “Nurse Hill, prep an OR immediately. We need to be ready for a critical patient. This is urgent.” She released the button but kept the receiver clutched in her hand, her breath quick and shallow.

Her thoughts raced. Could it be Ayuna? The code phrase—Bloody Flower Fields—felt too much like a cruel twist of fate. It was their private childhood game, the nickname they’d given to a field near their home where they had once buried something they’d sworn to never speak of again. Her stomach churned. No. It can’t be her. But the nagging doubt gnawed at her, refusing to be silenced. ”If it is her… I have to be ready. I won’t lose you Ayuna.”

Back in the blood-soaked bedroom, Ayuna’s hands moved with mechanical precision, each motion a perfect mirror of her other work. The same techniques that had harvested Frank’s heart now fought to preserve Olivia’s life. Her bracelet caught the lamplight as she worked, blood-resin beads gleaming like fresh drops of crimson.

For a moment, her hands stilled. How easy it would be to let Olivia slip away – one less witness, one less complication. The thought came with practiced clinical detachment, just as father had taught them. Her fingers twitched toward the improvised chest tube. One small adjustment…

But Gabriel’s face flashed in her mind, and her hands resumed their life-saving work. “Not this time,” she whispered, to herself or to Dima, she wasn’t sure.

Sirens grew louder as Ayuna completed her emergency interventions. Red and blue lights painted the walls like arterial and venous blood. She slipped away as the paramedics burst in, hoping that she bought Olivia enough time for the paramedics to get her back to Talia.

In OR 3, Talia Hartman stood frozen, her surgical team moving around her like a choreographed dance. The words “Bloody Flower Fields” echoed in her mind, a childhood whisper turned nightmare. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her surgical mask, remembering the last time she’d heard that phrase – the night Ayuna first showed her what father had taught them.

“ETA three minutes,” a nurse called out.

Talia closed her eyes, steadying herself. Please don’t let it be Ayuna. Please don’t let it be my sister. Her surgical gown felt too tight, constricting like the fear around her heart. The familiar scent of antiseptic filled her nostrils, grounding her in the present even as memories threatened to overwhelm.

“Patient arriving!”

The doors burst open, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. Talia’s breath caught as she registered dark hair, blood-soaked clothes – but not Ayuna’s face. Relief and horror warred within her as she recognized Olivia on the gurney.

“Female, early thirties, single stab wound to left thoracic cavity,” the paramedic rattled off. “Makeshift chest tube in place, surprisingly well-positioned…”

Talia’s surgical instincts kicked in even as her mind raced. Her eyes found the improvised chest tube, recognizing immediately the precise placement, the elegant efficiency of the emergency intervention. Only someone with intimate knowledge of thoracic anatomy could have managed such perfect positioning under duress. Only someone trained by—

No. Focus.

“BP dropping, doctor!”

Talia’s hands moved automatically, muscle memory taking over as she began her assessment. The wound edges were clean, precise – almost beautiful in their surgical accuracy. She recognized the technique, had seen it countless times in childhood “lessons.” This was Ayuna’s work – or perhaps Dima’s. The thought sent a chill down her spine.

Under the harsh fluorescent lights of Operating Room 3, Dr. Talia Hartman’s hands moved with inherited precision through Olivia’s chest cavity. The damage was extensive but controlled – every cut a textbook example of anatomical knowledge. Each detail screamed of her sister’s involvement, whether as savior or accomplice, she couldn’t yet tell.

“Jesus, Ayuna,” she muttered, examining the emergency chest tube placement. “Perfect positioning, as always.” The improvised drain had bought crucial minutes, the difference between life and death. Her sister’s technical brilliance was evident in every emergency measure and makeshift intervention, even without proper tools.

Talia’s surgical team worked in focused silence, repairing the damage with methodical efficiency. The steady beep of the heart monitor provided a rhythm to their work, each movement practiced and precise. The operating room smelled of antiseptic and copper—familiar scents that pulled at memories she’d tried to bury.

Dark Family Legacy

She adjusted her grip on the needle driver, her hands steady as she began the closure. How many times had she done this? Hundreds, maybe thousands. Each surgery a step closer to mastering her craft, always chasing perfection, always chasing Ayuna. Her sister had an uncanny brilliance, an effortless precision Talia had spent years trying to match. Ayuna was the bar she measured herself against, the shadow she both admired and resented. Just a little better, always a little better.

“Beginning closure now,” she announced aloud, her voice calm and commanding. The familiar motions carried her forward, muscle memory taking over. “Someone update the family.”

As the final suture slipped into place, Talia stepped back, stripping off her bloody gloves. Olivia would live – thanks to the same surgical precision that had almost killed her, Talia wondered.. Through the observation window, she caught her reflection: another Hartman sister, another surgical prodigy, another keeper of dark secrets.

“Oh, Ayuna,” she whispered, turning away from her reflection. “You couldn’t have done this to Olivia. What kind of garden are you tending now?”

Later, in the hushed stillness of the ICU recovery room, Gabriel stood at Olivia’s bedside, his gaze fixed on the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, each breath eerily synchronized with the soft hum of the ventilator. The machines beeped their steady rhythm, marking time like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. His hands clenched into fists as he stared at his best friend’s unconscious form, his mind replaying that final, cryptic phone call.

“Gabe, just listen,” Olivia’s frightened voice echoed in his memory. “Ayuna is hiding something, but I think I got it all wrong. Gabe, she—” Then the terrible sounds of struggle, followed by devastating silence.

He pressed his palms against his eyes, fighting back tears of rage and guilt. Every warning sign he’d ignored came rushing back with brutal clarity. Olivia’s concerned looks whenever Ayuna was around. Her careful questions about Ayuna’s past. The way she’d tried to tell him something was off, something wasn’t right.

“I should have listened,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “All those times you tried to warn me, Liv. I was so caught up in her, so blind…” His fingertips traced the tube snaking from Olivia’s mouth to the ventilator, each piece of medical equipment a stark reminder of how close he’d come to losing his best friend.

The steady beeping of the heart monitor seemed to mock him now. Each beat a reminder of his own transplanted heart, the miraculous timing of his donor suddenly taking on a sinister cast. Had Ayuna orchestrated that too? How deep did her manipulation go?

“I love this woman,” he murmured, his voice thick with confusion and pain. “Or at least, I thought I did. The woman I fell in love with… was any of it real?” His fist slammed against the wall, the dull thud barely audible over the machinery keeping Olivia alive. “How could she do this? Was everything a lie?”

Guilt and anger warred within him as he watched Olivia’s chest rise and fall. This was his fault. He had brought Ayuna into their lives, defended her against Olivia’s suspicions, chosen love over loyalty. Now Olivia lay here, fighting for her life, while Ayuna was God knows where, doing God knows what.

“I can’t let you get away with this, Ayuna,” he growled, his voice hardening with resolve. “I need to know why. All of it – the truth about who you really are, what you’ve done.” His hand found Olivia’s, squeezing gently. “I’ll make this right, Liv. I promise.”

In the corridor outside, Dr. Talia Hartman studied her patient’s charts, her expression unreadable. The surgery had been challenging – one of the hardest in her career. Each page of vital signs and post-operative notes told a story of precision violence and desperate intervention.

“The surgery was successful,” she explained to the waiting nurse, her voice steady despite her inner turmoil. “She’s stable for now, but when she’ll regain consciousness… that’s anyone’s guess. There could be complications we haven’t seen yet – hypoxic damage from the pneumothorax, potential nerve damage from the precision of the wound.” She paused, her finger tracing the surgical notes. “Only time will tell if there are long-term issues.”

Alone again, Talia leaned against the wall, letting out a shaky breath. “Bloody flower fields,” she whispered, their childhood code burning in her mind like a brand. How had it come to this? She and Ayuna had promised each other they would leave that life behind, bury their father’s legacy in legitimate surgical careers.

But here she was, standing in a sterile hospital corridor, reading charts that told a story in their family’s unique language of anatomical precision and calculated violence. The same techniques that had once promised to redeem them and repaint their family history now threatened to destroy everything they’d built.

“Oh, Ayuna,” she murmured, fighting back tears. “What garden are you tending now? What flowers are you cultivating in the dark?” Her fingers unconsciously traced patterns on the chart, mimicking surgical incisions. “You swore never to revisit that place, never let the monster out again. But here we are, sister. Here we are.”

The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed softly, casting harsh shadows across the patient charts. Each number, each clinical notation, seemed to mock their sisterly promises of normalcy. They had thought they could escape their father’s shadow by healing instead of hurting, by saving lives instead of taking them. But some gardens, once planted, never stop growing.

The sudden bang of the ICU door startled Talia from her dark thoughts. Gabriel stormed past her, his face a mask of barely contained rage. His footsteps echoed down the corridor like gunshots, each step carrying the weight of betrayal and dawning realization.

“Gabriel, wait!” Talia called after him, recognizing the dangerous intensity in his stride. “We need to talk about Olivia’s condition!”

But Gabriel didn’t slow, and didn’t even acknowledge her voice. His shoulders were rigid with purpose, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides. The automatic doors at the end of the corridor whispered open, then closed behind him with finality.

Talia stood frozen, staring down the now-empty hallway. The clinical calm of the hospital seemed to waver, like reality itself was bending under the weight of impending violence. “Did he know? Had he finally pieced together the truth about Ayuna? But which truth? About their family’s legacy of perfectly placed incisions and harvested organs?

The security lights cast Gabriel’s retreating shadow on the sterile floor, stretching it into something darker, more primal. Talia watched it distort and elongate until it disappeared into the shadows beyond the hospital’s protective bubble of fluorescent safety.

A familiar chill crept up her spine as she watched him go – the same inexplicable cold dread she’d felt as a child whenever her father would grow quiet and distant, his eyes taking on that peculiar empty gleam. She couldn’t explain why Gabriel’s departure triggered that same visceral response, but her surgical instincts never lied. With Olivia fighting for her life, Ayuna in the wind, and Gabriel now a wild card, something dangerous had been set in motion – and Talia feared they were all past the point of no return.

The night and the whispering electronic sounds of the hospital settled around them like a shroud, while somewhere in the darkness, two monsters played out their deadly game of cat and mouse, with Gabriel’s life as the ultimate prize.

The night shift settled around them like a shroud, while somewhere in the darkness, two monsters played out their deadly game of cat and mouse, with Gabriel’s life as the ultimate prize.

…

» Part 18 When love becomes a scalpel’s edge: In this chilling installment of “Descent Into Darkness,” every heart has its breaking point.

Through Cleveland’s shadows, three predators circle their prey. As Dima’s surgical signature leaves a trail of perfectly placed wounds, Ayuna races to protect the man whose love almost made her forget what beats in her chest. But in the wake of Olivia’s attack, Gabriel’s transformation has begun. With each step into darkness, his borrowed heart beats a rhythm of revenge, threatening to turn him into the very monster he hunts.

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