INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – ICU ROOM – LATE NIGHT

The room is still and dim, lit only by the monitors and the faint glow from the hallway.

Jo sleeps in the recliner beside Link. She’s finally let herself drift.

Link sleeps, too. Shallow. Restless breathing. His face tight even in unconsciousness.

A faint twitch.

Then another.

His breath catches.

Suddenly, he jerks awake, eyes wide, chest heaving as if pulled violently from a nightmare.

For a second, he has no idea where he is.

The ceiling.
The shadows.
The tangle of lines and tubing.
It all hits him wrong.

He tries to inhale and pain slices through him, sharp and brutal.

His heart spikes on the monitor.

LINK
(gasping, terrified)
No—no, no, no—

His breaths are fast, uneven, ragged — each one hurts, which makes him panic more.
The beeping accelerates.

Jo’s eyes fly open.

JO
(blurry, half-asleep)
Link…?

His chest rises too fast — too many breaths, too shallow.

LINK
(strangled whisper)
I can’t— I can’t—

He tries to sit up; the pain slams him back, worsening the panic.

JO
(fully awake now, urgent but soft)
Baby, look at me.

He can’t. He’s spiraling, trapped between physical agony and blind fear.

JO
Link.
You’re safe. You’re at the hospital.
You’re okay. Look at me.

But he squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed.

LINK
I can’t breathe—
It hurts so bad.

He’s hyperventilating. Pain and panic fuse into one unbearable sensation.

Jo reaches for his face gently, cupping his cheek.

JO
Baby, focus on my voice.
You’re here. You’re safe.
We’ll give you something for the pain.

Jo hits the call button with her free hand.

His breaths are still too fast, but his eyes flicker toward her — searching for something solid.

JO
It’s okay. Just breathe.
I’ve got you.

A NURSE rushes in.

NURSE
Pain spike?

Jo nods quickly.

JO
He woke up terrified — he’s in pain.
 
Link is still trapped between pain and panic.

LINK
(hoarse, panicked)
It hurts— 

The nurse adjusts the IV quickly.

NURSE
We’re giving you something for the pain and anxiety, okay?
You’ll feel it in a few seconds.

Link’s eyes are glassy, chest still rising too fast.
Jo threads her fingers through his, grounding him with touch.

JO
I’ve got you.
You’re safe.
Just breathe with me. I’m right here.

He tries.
The medication begins to work after a couple of minutes.

His breaths slow slightly. The raw panic in his eyes softens into exhaustion.

The nurse keeps a hand on the IV pump, monitoring the drip.

NURSE
That’s it, Dr. Lincoln.
You’re doing okay.

He sags back into the pillow, breaths still unsteady but no longer gasping.
Finally, his eyes lock on Jo’s — exhausted and confused.

JO
You’re okay.
It’s the pain talking.
I am right here. 

Jo leans closer, touching her forehead to his gently, careful of everything.

JO
You’re safe now.
It’s okay.

His breathing settles — fragile but steady.
He drifts, not into true sleep, but into a calmer haze, still clinging to her voice.

Jo stays where she is, her hand in his, watching his chest rise and fall until she’s certain he’s truly settled.

FADE OUT.