The garage under the Sterling Center was dimly lit, echoing with a brewing winter storm outside. I’d just finished a seven-hour trauma drill. As I reached for my car door, a shadow peeled away from a concrete pillar.

“Elena!”

The voice was a raspy shriek. My security detail moved instantly, taking the figure to the ground before he’d closed half the distance. I turned.

It was Preston. Drenched, emaciated, caked in mud. He looked like a feral dog.

“Let me talk to her!” he wailed, thrashing against the guards. He forced himself to his knees. “Elena, they took my license. I’m going to prison. Please, drop the suit.

I’ll disappear. Don’t do this.”