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Morgan can't sleep. That's not unusual, but tonight, the restlessness is maddening. The case is still running circles in her head, refusing to settle no matter how many times she tries to push it aside. She tosses and turns, staring up at the ceiling, until the frustration finally gets the better of her.
If she's not going to sleep, she might as well be productive. She flicks on the small lamp on her bedside table, grabs her notebook, and starts jotting down scattered thoughts about the case.
A series of high-profile robberies, escalating to murder in their most recent heist. Travis Villa, a low-level thief, sits in custody, having confessed to the robberies but adamantly denying the killing. The working theory — agreed upon by most of the team — is that Villa's refusal to own up to the murder is just a desperate attempt to minimise his sentence.
But Morgan isn't convinced.
She keeps circling back to something Villa said during his interview: "That wasn't my job. "
The phrasing had struck her as odd at the time. The others dismissed it as a hollow excuse — an attempt to avoid responsibility. But what if he meant it literally?
What if the murder wasn't his job? What if it was someone else's?
The thought lodges itself in her brain like a thorn. She can't shake the feeling that they're missing something — that Villa wasn't acting alone.
Unable to sit still, she throws off the covers, gets dressed, and heads to the precinct. She thinks of calling Ludo to mind the kids before remembering Ludo, and the kids, are out of town for a few days to visit his mom. Even better.
The precinct is eerily quiet at this hour, the hum of the fluorescent lights the only sound. Morgan sits down at her desk and boots up her computer. She's not as fast as Daphne when it comes to digging through digital records, but she knows her way around the system well enough.
Her eyes blur slightly as she scrolls through Villa's transaction history and movement logs. The minutes drag on, and doubt starts to creep in. What if she's wrong? What if there's nothing there?
Then she sees it: a pattern.
Four days before each robbery, Villa made repeated calls to the same burner phone — a number that wasn't flagged in their initial investigation. She digs deeper, her pulse quickening.
The burner phone itself is registered under a false identity, but the timestamps of the calls line up perfectly with other events in their case timeline. Morgan's mind races: if Villa was calling this number right before every heist, then someone else might have been orchestrating things from behind the scenes.
Her suspicion solidifies into certainty: Villa wasn't working alone.
Morgan picks up her phone, excited and nervous, and calls Karadec. There's no answer, and of course there isn't because it's currently past 3am, her phone screen tells her. She leaves a voicemail for him, her tone urgent. "Karadec, I'm sorry to call you so late, but I think I found something. This wasn't just a one-off robbery gone wrong — there's a bigger player behind this, and I think I can prove it. Call me back as soon as you can."
When he doesn't respond, she texts him the details — screenshots of the call logs and her notes— but as she sits back, her thoughts keep spiralling. The burner phone could lead to something bigger, and every second counts.
Look at this — I think suspect was working with someone. I'm checking it out.
Against her better judgment, Morgan decides to take the next step herself. She traces the last known location of the burner phone, cross-referencing it with local surveillance and movement data. It leads her to a dingy motel across town, a place possibly linked to an associate of Villa's.
Morgan grabs her coat and keys. Part of her knows she should wait for backup, but the drive to uncover the truth pushes her forward.
As she heads out into the night, her gut tells her she's close to breaking the case wide open.
--
The motel is exactly what Morgan expected: rundown and grimy, with flickering neon lights casting a sickly glow over the parking lot. The air smells faintly of gasoline and mildew. She parks her car near the entrance and takes a deep breath, trying to calm the adrenaline buzzing through her veins.
The clerk at the front desk barely looks up as she enters, absorbed in a game on his phone. He's an older man, wiry with a scruffy beard and a faded flannel shirt that looks like it hasn't been washed in a week. His crooked name tag reads Frank, the letters faded. Morgan takes a moment to assess him — a creature of habit, judging by the lukewarm coffee cup sitting on the counter next to him and the bored, almost robotic way his thumb taps his phone. She knows the type: overworked, underpaid, and just trying to get through the night without hassle.
Perfect.
She approaches the desk, letting her heels click softly against the linoleum floor, and flashes her most disarming smile. "Evening, Frank," she says, her voice smooth and sweet, with just enough warmth to suggest familiarity.
Frank doesn't bother hiding his irritation as he looks up from his phone, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. But when he sees her smile, his expression softens slightly, though his caution remains.
Morgan leans on the counter just enough to suggest casualness, tilting her head in a way she knows makes her look approachable. "I'm supposed to be meeting my boyfriend here," she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "but he forgot to give me the room number. Any chance you could help a girl out?"
It's a gamble, and she knows it. If their suspect gave another fake name, she'll be chasing shadows. If Frank decides to ask too many questions, her story could crumble like a house of cards. And Karadec — don't think about Karadec. He hasn't answered her text, and she doesn't have time to wait. Better to act now and ask for forgiveness than for permission.
Frank squints at her, clearly weighing whether this is worth his time. "What's the name?" he asks, his voice gruff but lacking the suspicion she feared.
"Isaac Schneider," Morgan replies without missing a beat.
Frank turns to his ancient computer, the screen's sickly green glow illuminating his lined face. He types with slow, deliberate movements, the hum of the ceiling fan above them filling the silence. Morgan's fingers tap lightly against the counter, betraying the nervous energy she's working hard to suppress.
"Room 213," Frank says at last, not even looking up as he slides back into his chair and resumes his game, his interest in her completely extinguished.
Morgan's stomach twists. Relief and nerves fight for dominance, but she keeps her face neutral. "Thanks, Frank," she says with a wink, already turning toward the stairs.
As she ascends the creaking steps, the weight of what she's just done settles in her chest. Impersonating a perp's girlfriend? Karadec would kill her if he knew. But he's not here, and this lead won't wait. She tells herself it's worth it, even as the unease lingers at the back of her mind.
Room 213, she repeats silently, her hand brushing the badge tucked inside her coat.
Her instincts scream that she's close to something big — but they also whisper that she's walking into something far more dangerous than she's prepared for.
The door to Room 213 is locked, but Morgan knows the type of cheap bolt these motels use. A firm shove with her shoulder and the door creaks open, the latch snapping loose.
The room is dark, the curtains drawn. She pulls out her phone and flicks on the flashlight, sweeping it over the dingy furniture and peeling wallpaper. The air smells stale, with a faint metallic tang.
The room is a mess — clothes strewn across the bed, an open duffel bag on the floor. Morgan kneels down, rummaging through its contents. Inside, she finds a handgun, partially tucked under a pile of clothes. She carefully pulls it out, noting the serial number scratched off — a telltale sign of criminal activity, a balaclava, black and frayed at the edges and a torn note, crumpled at the bottom of the bag, with scrawled numbers and an address.
Her stomach drops as she pieces it together: the address on the note matches the location of the last robbery.
Morgan takes a quick photo of the gun and the note for evidence, her pulse racing. She knows she should call for backup now. Or leave. She reaches into her pocket for her phone—
The crunching sound of a footstep behind her sends her heart lurching. She turns sharply, barely catching the shadowed figure before something heavy slams into the side of her head.
Pain explodes in her skull, and the world spins violently as Morgan collapses to the floor. Her phone clatters out of her hand, the flashlight spinning across the room. She tries to push herself up, but another blow lands — this time against her ribs — forcing the air from her lungs.
The last thing she sees before darkness swallows her is the faint glint of a gun in the figure's hand.
--
Adam Karadec wakes to the sharp trill of his alarm clock vibrating against the bedside table. He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face as he fumbles for the device. The clock glares 6:30 AM in bright red numbers. Next to it, his phone. Karadec is not in the habit of checking his phone first thing in the morning, but today he does. A voicemail notification blinks on the screen alongside a text message from Morgan.
He sits up, instantly more alert. Morgan doesn't leave messages unless it's important.
He taps the voicemail first, holding the phone to his ear. Her voice fills the silence, breathless and tinged with excitement:
"Karadec, I'm sorry to call you so late, but I think I found something. This wasn't just a one-off robbery gone wrong — there's a bigger player behind this, and I think I can prove it. Call me back as soon as you can."
Karadec frowns, his brow furrowing deeper with every word. He quickly opens the text. It contains a series of screenshots — call logs and notes on a burner phone linked to Travis Villa, their suspect in the recent string of robberies-turned-murder. The timestamp on the message is from hours ago.
Why didn't I see this earlier? he thinks, guilt creeping into his chest.
He immediately dials her number. It rings and rings until her voicemail picks up. He hangs up and tries again. Still nothing.
Something is wrong. Morgan is impulsive, sure, but she always answers him eventually.
Karadec jumps out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans and a jacket. He grabs his keys and bolts out the door, heart pounding.
Morgan's house is dark when he pulls into the driveway, her car conspicuously absent. Karadec bangs on the door anyway, calling her name, but there is no answer.
He considers calling Ludo to see if Morgan is with him, but then recalls her mentioning Ludo would be out of town with the kids. A sinking feeling settles in his stomach. He climbs back into his car, gripping the steering wheel as his mind races. She's not here. She hasn't been here for hours.
He needs backup.
The precinct is just starting to come alive at this hour, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows on the bullpen. Karadec finds the bullpen empty except for Daphne, who is nursing a cup of coffee and scrolling through something on her laptop.
She glances up as he strides in, her sharp eyes immediately catching his urgency.
"What's going on?" Daphne asks, setting her coffee down.
"Morgan's missing," Karadec says, his voice tight.
That gets her attention. She stands, her gaze narrowing. "What do you mean, missing?"
"She left me a voicemail and a message hours ago about the case. I've called her, gone to her house — nothing. She's not answering, and her car's gone."
Daphne curses under her breath and grabs her phone. "We need to get Oz and Soto here. Now."
Within minutes, the rest of the team has gathered in the conference room. Selena listens intently as Karadec recounts everything — Morgan's voicemail, the burner phone connection, the fact that she's gone off on her own without backup.
"This isn't like her," he finishes, jaw clenched. "She wouldn't just disappear."
Selena nods, her face unreadable. "Daphne, pull up the security cameras near her house and the precinct. Let's see where she went. Oz, I want you digging into that burner phone data — there might be something there that will help us figure out where she went." She then meets Karadec's gaze, steady and unflinching, noticing his inner turmoil. "We follow the evidence. If Morgan left us clues, we'll find her."
Daphne pulls up traffic camera footage from Morgan's neighbourhood. They spot her car leaving her driveway late last night. The footage traces her route as far as a side street near the precinct.
"She must've come here to work," Daphne mutters.
Karadec goes to Morgan's desk, where her computer screen immediately lights up at his touch — a sign it's been used earlier. Probably her first time using her own desk, Karadec thinks.
He enters her passcode — a combination of her kids' birthdays — and scans the files she was working on. It's exactly what she sent him: call logs, burner phone activity, and a hastily written note pointing to a potential accomplice tied to the phone.
Oz calls out from his desk. "Got something. That burner phone? It's registered to an Isaac Schneider, no doubt a fake name, but it pinged near a motel on the east side of town two days ago. No activity since then, but if Morgan was tracking it, that's probably where she went."
Karadec's chest tightens. A dingy motel, late at night, and no backup? His jaw clenches as fear sharpens into determination.
"Then that's where we're going," he says, already heading for the door.
"Hold it," Selena says, her voice a sharp command. "We do this by the book. Daphne, Oz, you're with us. Notify patrol units in the area—I want them on standby."
Karadec doesn't argue, but tension radiates off him in waves as they leave.
The neon sign outside the motel flickers weakly against the pale light of the morning. Karadec steps inside, tension rippling through his chest like a coiled spring, where a scruffy clerk looks up from behind the counter, his expression bored, the name tag reading Frank.
Karadec approaches the desk with purpose, flashing his badge in one swift motion. “Detective Karadec and Soto, Agents Forrester and Osman, LAPD,” he states firmly. Without missing a beat, he pulls out his phone, taps the screen to bring up a photo of Morgan, and holds it up. His voice is sharp and precise as he asks, “Have you seen this woman?”
Frank glances at the photo, his brow furrowing in thought. "Yeah, I saw her, last night" he says after a moment. "Pretty girl. Came in last night asking about her boyfriend." He chuckles, the sound low and almost amused. "Guess he stood her up, huh?"
Karadec's entire body stiffens, his fist clenching instinctively at his side. "Her name is Morgan," he growls, his tone dangerous. "And she is with the LAPD."
Frank blinks, startled by the sudden heat in Karadec's voice, his amusement evaporating, but before he can respond, Selena steps in, her hand pressing firmly against Karadec's arm.
"Detective," she warns quietly, her tone steady and unyielding.
Karadec glares at Frank for a long moment, the urge to do something reckless simmering just beneath the surface. But Selena's grip doesn't waver, and the cold reality of the situation pulls him back. He exhales sharply, forcing himself to step back.
"What was the boyfriend's name, do you remember? And did she say anything?" Selena asks, her voice calm but with an edge of urgency.
Frank shrugs, his gaze darting nervously between Selena and Karadec. "Nah, she just went upstairs," he types quickly and silently on his keyboard, before looking back at Selena, "Isaac Schneider. Room 213."
“Did you see her leave?” Selena presses.
Frank shakes his head. “Nah, can’t say I did. Look, I’m not looking for any trouble, all right? I’m just the desk guy.”
“What about Schneider?” Selena asks, her eyes narrowing. “Did he pay with a card or leave an ID?”
Frank sighs, shrugging. “Paid cash. Always did. Came here every other Wednesday, stayed the week, then vanished. Kept to himself. I might have a copy of his license on file somewhere, but... you know, privacy and stuff.”
Selena’s expression hardens, her polite veneer thinning. “Frank,” she says firmly, leaning in just enough to make her presence feel larger, “if you’re withholding anything, that will be trouble.”
"Okay, yeah, sure. I'll look around for it."
"Agent Osman will stay here with you to get that copy, the rest of my team will go up to Room 213 to look for our colleague."
That's all Karadec needs to hear. Without another word, he turns on his heel and heads for the stairs, his team following close behind. His heart pounds as they reach the second floor. He pauses briefly at the door, glancing at Selena, who nods.
With one swift motion, he kicks the door open.
The room is empty.
But the signs of a struggle are everywhere: a tipped-over chair, a broken lamp, and a streak of blood on the carpet - the sight makes him sick to his stomach. Karadec scans the space, his eyes landing on a duffel bag near the bed, and Morgan's phone across the room.
Selena picks up the note inside the duffel bag, her expression grim. "This connects Isaac Schneider, whatever his real name may be, to the robberies"
"And Morgan's phone confirms she was here before someone came and discovered her here." Karadec clenches his fists, his voice low and dangerous. "Let's go find him."
--
Karadec leans against the wall beside the two-way mirror, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His jaw aches from how hard he's been clenching it, but he doesn't care. His eyes are locked on Travis Villa, who sits slouched at the metal table in the interrogation room, looking far too relaxed for a man who should be terrified.
Selena is seated across from him, calm and composed as always, her hands folded neatly on the table. She doesn't flinch when Villa smirks at her, his cocky demeanour barely concealing the nervous energy beneath it.
Karadec knows better than to be in that room himself. He'd asked — no, demanded — to be the one to interrogate Villa, but Selena had shut him down immediately. "You'd lose your temper, Adam," she'd said bluntly. "And we can't afford that right now."
She wasn't wrong. If Karadec were in there, Villa would already be face-first against the table, and that wouldn't get them any closer to finding Morgan.
Still, standing here, helpless to do anything but watch, is its own kind of torture.
Selena's voice is calm but firm as she speaks. "We know you didn't tell us the truth about the robberies, Travis."
Villa snorts, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, come on, Detective. I already confessed to the robberies. What else do you want from me?"
"We know you didn't work alone, Travis. And we both know you didn't plan the robberies. You're not the brains of the operation — you're just a cog in the machine." He face is stoic. "We want the names of your accomplices," Selena says evenly.
Villa's smirk falters for a fraction of a second, and Karadec sees the slight twitch of his fingers on the table. Gotcha, he thinks grimly.
Villa shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "I told you before, I worked alone."
Selena doesn't react. Instead, she leans forward slightly, her voice dropping just enough to make him lean in, too. "Here's the thing, Travis. If you worked alone, then you're the one responsible for the murder during that last heist. That's life in prison — no deals, no leniency."
Villa's smirk fades completely now. He shifts in his chair, his bravado cracking at the edges.
"But," Selena continues, her tone smooth, "if you tell me who you were working with, I can make some of that go away. Help us catch the people who actually planned this, and maybe I can get you out before you're too old to remember your own name."
Karadec's fists clench at her words. He hates this. Hates hearing Selena offer a deal to the scumbag who helped orchestrate this mess while Morgan is still missing. But he knows it's the right play. Selena isn't just a good cop; she's a strategic one.
Villa hesitates, glancing at the mirror. Karadec knows he can't see him, but he glares back anyway, as if his hatred alone can cut through the glass.
"Fine," Villa says finally, his voice tight. "There were two others. Real names? Don't know. They told me to call 'em Mick and Roach."
Selena doesn't react, but Karadec sees the subtle tightening of her jaw. Two accomplices.
Karadec pushes off the wall, pacing the small observation room. Two of them. She went in alone, and there are two of them, he thinks, a sick feeling twisting in his gut.
"Where are they now?" Selena asks, her voice steady.
Villa shrugs. "Hell if I know. I wasn't in charge of where the money went, and they didn't exactly keep me in the loop. I just got my cut."
Selena leans back, her face betraying nothing. "You're sure you don't know where they might be keeping our consultant? The woman who put you in here?"
Villa's brow furrows in genuine confusion. "The hell are you talking about? I don't know anything about that."
Selena studies him for a long moment, then nods, as if satisfied with his answer. "Which one is Isaac Schneider — Mick or Roach?" She pulls out a picture of Isaac, taken from the license Frank gave them.
"That's Roach."
She pushes her chair back and stands, gathering the files on the table. "You've been very helpful, Travis," she says coolly. "I'll make sure the DA knows about your cooperation."
Villa doesn't look particularly reassured, but he doesn't protest as Selena leaves the room.
The door opens, and Selena steps in, her expression as calm as ever. Karadec rounds on her immediately.
"You made a deal with him?" he snaps, his voice low but furious.
Selena meets his gaze without flinching. "Yes. And it got us what we needed."
"He doesn't even know where she is," Karadec retorts, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Selena's voice softens, though her resolve remains. "Adam, I know you're angry. I know you're worried about Morgan. But this is how we find her. Two accomplices — names we didn't have before. It's a lead."
His snorts, humourlessly "Mick and Roach. How the hell are we going to find them in LA?"
Karadec turns away, dragging a hand through his hair. Part of him knows Selena's right. But knowing doesn't make it any easier to stomach.
Selena steps closer, her voice quiet. "We'll find her. But I need you to stay focused. She needs you focused."
He exhales sharply, nodding once. "Mick and Roach. We start there."
Selena nods. "Exactly. Daphne and Oz are already digging into aliases and known associates of Villa. We'll find them."
Karadec forces himself to meet her gaze, his jaw tight but his resolve hardening. "We'd better. Because if we don't—"
"We will," Selena interrupts firmly. "We will."
Karadec, Selena, Daphne, and Oz gather around a large whiteboard covered in photos, notes, and strings connecting the dots of their case. Daphne is typing furiously on her laptop, her screens filled with databases, call logs, and aliases.
"We've got 'Mick' and 'Roach,'" Daphne begins, her voice sharp as she narrows down the information. "No full names, but let's start with what we know. Villa wasn't the mastermind, so these two likely have priors. Odds are, they've worked together or operated in the same circles before."
"We can use facial recognition to see if we get a hit in the database," Oz interjects, stepping up with a notepad in hand. "We restrict the search to cons, and ex-cons. Villa also mentioned he wasn't in the loop about where the money went. But he was paid. That means Mick and Roach needed a drop location, or someone to funnel the cash."
"I doubt we'll get any bank records," Daphne adds, sceptically.
"No, not if they're smart," Oz replies. "But cash drops, local launderers? That's worth a look."
After an hour of sifting through data, Daphne lets out a triumphant noise. "Got something!"
Everyone looks up hopefully as she turns the laptop toward them. "Finally got a hit on the facial recognition — this technology could do with an update to make it faster, just saying. Roach: real name Timothy Roachford. He was in prison for breaking and entering, and being an accessory to murder."
"Check if he met anyone in prison who could be Mick," Selena tells her.
"Already on it, Chief," Daphne smirks. "Nothing comes up when I put 'Mick', but Timothy's cellmate was called Miguel Ortiz — not outside the realm of possibilities that he went by Mick. He was in for armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon and kidnapping. Fits our profile. And, they were cellmates for two years before Mick got out early. Roach followed six months later."
Karadec closes his eyes, struggling to keep his emotions in check. Neither of these men are the kind of people he'd ever want Morgan anywhere near.
Selena steps forward. "Do we have a current address for either of them?"
Daphne shakes her head. "Mick's last known address was an abandoned trailer park. Roach's parole address is a dead end — he didn't show up for his last check-in."
"Check if anything pops up in their name. Buildings, houses, company. One of them could own land, and that's where Morgan could be." Oz suggests.
Daphne types rapidly, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she searches for anything tied to Ortiz or Roachford. The tension in the room is thick, the silence broken only by the sound of clicking keys and the faint hum of the computer.
“Got it,” Daphne announces, her eyes narrowing as she scans the screen. “Miguel Ortiz used to own a decommissioned textile factory. It’s not under his name anymore, sold it off when he went to prison, but — wait.” She leans in closer. “The property records show it’s been sitting empty for the past three years. No current owner on record.”
Karadec’s heart pounds. “Where is it?”
Daphne pulls up a map and spins the laptop toward the team. “It’s on the outskirts of town. Completely isolated.”
“That’s got to be it,” Oz says, leaning over the screen. “It’s the perfect spot for them to lay low and keep a hostage. No neighbours, no prying eyes.”
Selena nods sharply. “Ok, let’s move.”
Karadec is already halfway out the door, the urgency propelling him forward. The team scrambles to follow, grabbing their gear as they rush to the vehicles.
In the car, Karadec grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. His mind races with possibilities — what condition Morgan could be in, what Mick and Roach might have done to her, and what he’ll do to them if they’ve hurt her.
Selena sits in the passenger seat, her voice steady as she coordinates with dispatch. “We’re heading to Ortiz textile factory. Coordinates 34.196604,-118.258490. Requesting backup. Approach with caution; two suspects — armed and dangerous.”
The factory looms on the horizon as they approach, its broken windows and rusting exterior a grim reminder of its past. As they pull up, Karadec scans the area, his detective instincts kicking in. Overgrown weeds surround the perimeter, and the heavy silence feels unnatural.
“This is the place,” he mutters.
He leaps out of the car the second it screeches to a halt, legs burning as he sprints toward the building. Somewhere behind him, he knows the team is following, but it's all white noise, drowned out by the pounding of his heart and the singular thought blazing in his mind: Morgan.
The front door comes up fast. His shoulder slams into it without hesitation, the force reverberating through his body. He's not even sure if he shouted a warning or his name — none of it matters. Not when she could be inside.
The building is a labyrinth of narrow corridors and stairs, the kind of place someone picks on purpose to make it hell to navigate. He's aware of his team splitting off, taking their assigned areas, but his focus is razor-sharp. Every shadow, every sound sets his nerves on fire.
He climbs to the third floor, his gun drawn, adrenaline pounding through his veins. The corridor is dim, the air stale, and the creak of the floorboards under his boots feels deafening. He kicks open the first door to his left — it's empty. Nothing but grime and decay.
"Damn it," he mutters, stepping back into the hallway.
Morgan isn't here. She could be behind the door at the end of the hall. She could be on another floor. She could—
No. He shuts that thought down hard. He won't entertain it. He can't.
He hears noises coming from somewhere on one of the floors under him, but he doesn't let that distract him — his team will have it covered, and he trusts them.
Gritting his teeth, he strides toward the next door. It's locked, but that doesn't slow him. His shoulder collides with the wood, and there's a sharp jolt of pain that registers somewhere in the back of his mind. The door bursts open with a splintering crack, and he sweeps the room with his gaze.
And then he sees her.
Relief hits him like a fist to the gut, so overwhelming it almost takes his legs out from under him. She's there — alive, alive — sitting slumped in a chair. Her wrists are tied, and he can see her bruised face when she lifts her head at the sound of him breaking in. Her bright blue eyes find his, and he could fall apart right there.
He crosses the room in an instant, holstering his gun as he drops to his knees behind her. His hands work at the ropes, trembling as he whispers promises under his breath — half to her, half to himself. Stupid, desperate words like: "I've got you. You're okay. I'm here."
Her wrists are raw, angry red welts cutting into her skin, and the sight sends a fresh wave of fury crashing through him. The bastards who did this are going to pay. Morgan reaches up with shaking fingers, tearing the tape from her mouth before he can help her.
He moves to her ankles next, making quick work of the ropes cutting into her skin. Her legs are trembling, and her shoes are gone. He catches sight of her bare feet, and it's such a jarring contrast to the Morgan he knows — the one who wears heels like armour, towering and unshakable.
Something about seeing her like this — vulnerable, stripped of all her usual defences — rips through him like a blade. It feels so wrong.
He reaches up, resting a hand gently on her shoulder as if to anchor her. She flinches slightly at the contact, and he pulls back immediately, hating himself for the reflex. "Morgan," he says softly, his voice frayed at the edges. "I've got you now. You're safe."
"Adam," it's barely a whisper. Her lower lip is trembling and all other thoughts fall at that. All that matters now is her, safe. A part of his brain registers that this might be the first time she's called him by his first name.
He reaches up again, putting a hand on her arm, and just like that, she tumbles out of the chair into his lap. He wraps his hands around her trembling body as she leans on his shoulder, holding onto his shirt like it's a life-line.
"It's okay, you're okay, Morgan. I've got you now. You're safe. I promise. I got you." He keeps breathing into her hair, both for her and himself.
Adam's not sure how long they stay like that, but it can't be more than a couple of minutes — her trembling dies down and her body slackens against his, but still, she doesn't make any move to get out of their positions on the floor.
In the end it's him who stirs first, much to her whines. "We need to get you checked out, Morgan. Make sure you're ok for real."
She murmurs something — soft, slurred and unintelligible.
"What?" He gently pulls her away, enough to be able to look at her face. He tries to ignore the large bruise on her cheekbone and the dried blood on her hairline, lest his rage takes over. Instead, he focuses his gaze on her tired, unfocused eyes, kicking himself for not noticing earlier. Her head lolls slightly to the side, as if too heavy for her to hold straight, and she blinks slowly.
"S... nothing," she mumbles, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Morgan," he says, trying to keep the fear off his voice. He doesn't like the way her words stumble over themselves, like her tongue is too heavy for them. Her skin is pale, and there's something almost unnatural in the way her body seems to slack, like she can't hold herself up. His jaw tightens, "What did they do to you?"
She doesn't respond, and he leans closer, alarmed, pressing his palm slightly against her cheek to tun her face toward him. His stomach churns at how warm she feels — too warm.
"Hey, Morgan, please," he forces his voice to be gentle, though it still cracks at the end, "What's wrong? You're-" he swallows hard as realisation hits him, "Were you drugged?"
He feels stupid. If the roles were reversed, she would've realised this immediately.
Her lashes flutter, and she gives a small, almost apologetic nod. "Mh hm. Sorry."
A cold anger flicks through him, sharp enough to cut. "We're getting out of here. Now." He scoops her form up in his arms and begins walking out of the room.
She makes a small sound of protest — something about walking — but it's weak — way too weak his brain tells him — her head dropping against his shoulder. He tightens his hold on her as he moves swiftly through the hallway.
"Don't even argue, Gillory," he mutters, voice low and uneven, "you're in no shape to stand, let alone walk," he says, as the image of her falling onto him mere seconds ago haunts him. How could he be so stupid.
The tension in his chest won't let up, even as the paramedics take her from him. It isn't just the fear that he's almost lost her — it's the rage simmering just beneath the surface. He will make them pay for this.
"We're bringing her to the hospital. She needs medical attention ASAP," the young paramedic in front of him tells him, her ponytail swinging lightly as she talks.
"I'm coming with," he tells her before jumping on the ambulance, leaving to room for argument. He sees Morgan's been hooked to an IV drip and he takes one of her hands in his as the ambulance doors close and they start moving.
Her soft voice breaks him out of his reverie. "You're... angry."
He glances down, surprised to find her awake, and looking at him with bleary curiosity. "Not at you," he adds quickly, his tone softer than he's ever heard it, "never at you." And he means that too. No matter how much Morgan grated him sometimes, he could never stay annoyed at her for too long.
Her lips curve into the barest ghost of a smile. "Thought you'd... yell at me for going alone."
His chest tightens at the words. The frustration is still there, sure, but it's drowned by everything else — the relief, the guilt, the overwhelming need to keep her safe. He shakes his head, his grip on her hand firm but careful. "We'll talk about this later, okay? For now, just stay with me."
She nods, jerkily. Her breathing has slowed a little — still uneven, but it's calming down. She sighs faintly, squeezing his hand. "You came for me," she whispers, her eyes still closed. He can't tell what the tone of her voice means.
His jaw clenches, and he blinks away the tightness in his throat. He doesn't trust himself to speak right away, so he squeezes her hand back. He looks up to the paramedics, completely having forgotten about them, but he finds the young brunette who spoke to him before engrossed in a conversation with her colleague. He returns his attention to Morgan. "Of course I did," he says softly then.
Morgan's eyes are closed, and he can see the regular rising and falling of her chest. Maybe it's better that she can't see his face, because in that moment he lets himself feel it. The raw, unspoken truth of it all.
He would always come for her.