Just wrong.
The edges of the screen softened first.
Then the center lost focus like someone had quietly turned down the resolution on reality.
I blinked once. Twice.
Didn’t fix it.
My hand tightened slightly on the edge of the desk.
Something was off.
My breathing shifted. Shallow. Then tighter.
I sat still, waiting for my body to correct itself.
It didn’t.
A pressure started building in my chest.
Not pain. Not yet.
Restriction.
Like my lungs had decided they weren’t interested in doing their job anymore.
I exhaled slowly, then tried to take a deeper breath.
It didn’t go all the way in.
That’s when I knew.
Not fatigue. Not the usual.
This was chemical.
My eyes flicked back to the screen.
Medical supply chain.
Hospital network.
Batch numbers.
A thought connected faster than my body could react.
The transfusion this morning.
Same supplier. Same network. Same corruption.
I pushed myself up from the chair.
Too fast.
The room tilted.
My hand shot out, catching the edge of the terminal.
Steady.
Stay upright.
Think.
I reached for my phone.
Unlocked.
Dialed.
No hesitation.
“Medical emergency,” I said the second the line opened. “Anaphylactic response. Pentagon SCIF access level. I need immediate extraction to Bethesda.”
My voice didn’t sound like mine.
Too tight. Too controlled.
The operator didn’t ask questions.
“Stay where you are. Response team en route.”
I ended the call.
My throat tightened next.
Swallowing became difficult.
Airflow dropped again. Faster this time.
I moved toward the exit.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
Not weak.
Delayed.
Like my body was running on bad signal.
By the time I reached the elevator, my fingers were numb.
I pressed the button.
Waited.
Too long.
The doors opened.
I stepped in.
The ride up felt longer than usual.
Or maybe my body just didn’t have time left to process it normally.
By the time I got out, the hallway lights were too bright.
Voices sounded distant.
Someone said my name.
I didn’t answer.
I kept moving.
Then everything dropped.
Not a fall.
More like the ground came up faster than expected.
The next thing I registered was noise.
Sharp. Urgent. Controlled chaos.
“BP dropping.”
“Airway compromised.”
“Get epinephrine ready.”
Hands moved around me. Fast. Efficient. Professional.
I didn’t open my eyes right away.
Didn’t need to.
I knew where I was.
Bethesda.
ER.
Someone pressed something cold against my arm.
Another injection.
My chest tightened harder, then loosened slightly.
Air came in again.
Not enough, but more than before.
“Stay with us,” a voice said.
I didn’t respond.
Not because I couldn’t.
Because I was focusing on breathing.
In. Out. In.
Not enough.
But still there.
Time moved differently after that.
Not slower. Fragmented.
Pieces instead of flow.
Voices. Footsteps. Monitors.
Then one sentence cut through everything.
“We need compatible blood now.”
Another voice answered.
“Type is rare. Inventory is low.”
Pause.
“Call family.”
That landed.
Not emotionally.
Logically.
Of course.
Genetic match.
Fastest option.
I tried to open my eyes.
