"Henry Wallace, the chief medical examiner at the Riverside Morgue, has yet to release an official cause of death or the person's identity. However, it has been confirmed by the local police department that the suspect, deemed in this morning's newspaper as the Riverside Ripper, was already dead when they arrived at the scene. Again, the masked man that has been terrorizing this town and is responsible for over a dozen murders, is confirmed dead. Parents can sleep easy tonight knowing that their children are no longer in dan—"

The bulky television, mounted in the upper right corner of the room, flicks to a black screen before Taylor tosses the remote control onto the small table in front of her. The steady beep of the heart monitor, the nauseating noise she had attempted to drown out by turning on the morning news, rings yet again in her ears.

She slowly pulls her long hair back behind her shoulders as she glances down at the steel pan lying on the floor near the bedside. Blood persistently drops from the thin surgical hose dangling directly above it but now at a slower pace and, according to the nurse that had cleaned it out just moments ago, that could only be taken as a positive sign. Although it's not a guarantee, she strongly reassured Taylor that Marc's vitals are improving as the fluids continue to drain from around his lungs. Taylor could only pray that is the case.

The sun glares through the open blinds as it rises past the horizon and, as Taylor allows her attention to be drawn to the blinding sight, she can't help but reminisce on the shattered memories of the relationship she had thrown away. Make that relationships.

In a neighboring room not too far down the same hall, another couple faces the grave consequences of a night that—although shadowed by the recent murders—will forever be etched into the town's history. The two victims that had somehow managed to escape the crazed murderer are side-by-side, one sitting in a chair and the other lying down stiffly, and it can only be viewed as a blessing that they are still here. Still breathing.

Even if one of them is slowly drawing their oxygen through a narrow tube.

But for once, Casey finds her attention not focused on that. Instead, her eyes are locked onto the black box trembling in her left palm and, amidst the choked desolation lingering inside of her, she finds herself captivated by the leather exterior alone. As she slowly pries the small lid open with her other hand daylight reflects from the diamond solitaire and, although she had already expected what could have been tucked inside of the compact box, her jaw instantly drops as she covers her mouth in shock.

The beautiful, flawless stone blossoms from the platinum band that rests in a small slit between two velvet cushions. The polished gem sparkles, almost as if it were being featured in some sort of advertisement, as she pulls it from its display. Trying not to drop it as her hands continue to shake uncontrollably, she immediately notices the infinity symbol engraved into the ring's inner core and she reaches up to gently graze her matching necklace with her index finger.

Suddenly, the monitor next to her beeps twice and the ventilator bag dramatically contracts. She peers up to see Riley, eyes still shut, as his chest expands and he draws in a heavy breath. Her eyes widen as she jumps to her feet and tightly clasps onto the bed's railing, the ring falling to the sheets tucked under his forearm.

"Riley..." she struggles to speak, hoping that it was an indicator that his body is easing its way back to breathing on its own. "Wake up. Please."

His eyelids twitch and, for a brief moment, she expects them to flutter open and for his brown eyes to gaze into hers. But instead, he continues to lie in his vegetative state and she continues to rely on hope. And at this point, that's really all she has left.

At the rounded desk centered just outside of the ICU, Dr. Adrian Navarro slides a clipboard to the receptionist sitting behind the computer. He uses the collar of his white coat to wipe at a dribble of sweat running down his right cheek. "Vitals seem fine. Kerry, make a note to gradually decrease the anesthetic."

"Long shift, huh?" The receptionist, a young lady in her late teens, ignores his remark as she stares down at a live video playing from her phone. "Well, they said the lunatic has been killed so you can say goodbye to that overtime."

"Doctors get paid salary." A crooked smile forms on his face. "So trust me when I say I don't mind."

"Oh," she says apathetically, still not looking up from the device.

"Kerry."

"Yeah?"

He reaches down to snatch the phone from her hand. Gasping, she peers up at him unbelievably—apparently not too accustomed to his more strict side—as he slides it into his coat pocket. But after all, it has been a long night. "What did I tell you about cell phones at work? Make the note."

"Okay, okay." She pulls the clipboard close to her. "Oh, you got blood on your coat by the way."

Glancing down, his eyes frantically scan his coat. "Where?"

She points at his sleeve where a small, red splatter stains the polyester material just near his wrist. The dimples quickly forming on her cheeks make it obvious that she is holding back a laugh and, to restrain herself, begins writing on the top sheep clipped onto the board.

"Damn." He sighs, shaking his head. He hurriedly heads toward a set of doors leading to the employee's locker room, passing a nurse carrying a bouquet of white lilies in a clear vase.

After she shoots him an overlooked smile, which quickly fades the moment she is out of his sight, she stops at a nearby door and lightly knocks on it before twisting the handle. She slowly pushes it open to reveal Taylor standing at the foot of Marc's bed.

"Hi," the nurse says politely as she peeks her head through the cracked doorway, as if checking for other visitors of which she already knew were absent. Slowly, she pushes the door open. "I got a special delivery."

Taylor watches the woman walk inside, her tennis shoes lightly squeaking against the linoleum floor as she steps over to the table near the room's window and sets the vase down. The dozen of white lilies stem from the center and branch out past the glass rim, crowding around a small card clipped onto a plastic pick.

"The first of many, I'm sure." The nurse shoots her a courteous smile.

"Thank you."

"Of course," she says. "Let us know if you need anything at all, okay?"

Taylor nods and waits for the woman to leave before drawing her focus back to the floral arrangement. The lilies hardly held a scent, however she found it hard to tell through her snuffling whether the flowers actually had a fragrance or not. A faint smile spreads across her face as she approaches the table and, just as fast as it had appeared, the corner of her lips sink downward as her eyes narrow. Her hand brushes past the bulbous mushroom cloud of pedals to get a better look at the card, revealing it to be more of a folded piece of paper. Similar—rather, nearly identical—to the one she had found in her school locker weeks back. The one the killer... the one Garrett... had left her, more than likely as a warning for her and her friends to turn themselves in before he had felt forced to take justice into his own hands.

Before her mind could begin to conceive the endless list of what disturbing words could possibly be written on the other side of the paper, she quickly folds it open to reveal—

'Get well soon.' The timeless, yet incredibly generic, message is written in perfect cursive over the crease centered on the slip of paper. A name wasn't signed.

She sighs, sliding the note back into its holder, and turns to glance at Marc as a surprising sense of relief overcomes her. Perhaps this madness truly is over. She lightly places her hand on top of the thin sheets covering his feet and grazes her fingertip back and forth along the bottom of his right sole—one of his hidden ticklish spots she had discovered by accident on their sixth date. The naïve side of her hopes deep down that the faintest sensation would wake him but realistically is aware that she is just finding solace in this moment. Once he wakes, they can go back to normal. And normal sounds pretty fucking good right now. Taylor reaches up to grab his hand, giving it a slight squeeze.

At the same time, Casey also takes hold of her lover's hand... with the solitaire now glistening from her left ring finger.

Nurses shuffle past the front desk through the congested walkway. One is scrambling through the paperwork she had accidentally dropped on the floor, another dodges through the crowd with a cart containing surgical equipment, two accompany each other to the break room to clock out. Judging by their faces, and the desensitized tone inadvertently developed in each of their voices, they seem to be running on fumes. Then again, when your career revolves around diseases and death on a daily basis, it's probably best to keep things on autopilot as often as possible.

But that doesn't last long. The sudden high-pitched noise cuts through the commotion and snags each of their attention, causing them to instantly shift gear. Their eyes light up as they cluster together and head toward one of the ICU rooms, clamoring to each other as they wonder where the doctor had slipped off to.

The insistent beep—more like a mechanized screech—echoes throughout the hospital's corridors. As the staff barge into the room, one nurse condoles the teenage girl crying on the floor as another pulls the defibrillator from the wall and begins to charge it. The doctor quickly enters the room, immediately approaching the unresponsive body sprawled out on the bed to see that another one of his colleagues had already unsnapped and pulled down the chest portion of the patient's gown. Checking the small screen displayed at the top of the apparatus, the nurse watches as the capacitor reaches over a thousand volts and passes the paddles off to the doctor.

Dr. Navarro wastes no time, pushing down on the side buttons before pressing the paddles against the patient's chest in short intervals, each sending an electric shock to the heart in an attempt to return it to a productive beat. But instead, the only rhythm comes from the monitor propped up next to the bedside as the continuous beep carries on. That is, until the doctor finally reaches over to turn it off.

"Time of death: 6:49 am."

♫ ʀᴇᴀᴘᴇʀ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ / ᴋᴇʏᴡᴇsᴛ ♫