Psychro Killer: Chapter 1 - The Fall

Niko marched through the hospital's automatic doors, already rehearsing what he would say to the receptionist. His mind, sharp and relentless, combed through the possible outcomes: a broken arm, a concussion, maybe even a couple of cracked ribs, all fixable things. Zoe was tough. She could handle anything. But still - cycling in London, her stubborn defiance of everything sensible and safe, was maddening.

"Bloody ridiculous," he muttered under his breath, as though berating her in absentia. His eyes scanned the waiting area: a room filled with London’s human wreckage. People slumped in chairs, clutching bruised limbs, heads bowed under the weight of their own small tragedies. Niko looked away, disgusted. This wasn’t a place for her. For them. She should never have been here in the first place.

The dot matrix display on the wall blinked with the unwelcome news: Approximate Waiting Time: 12 Hours.

Niko stared at the flashing red digits, incredulous. Twelve fucking hours. He scanned the miserable A&E waiting room, taking in even more of the scene; the gaudy hi-vis jackets draped over drunken bodies, a builder slumped in the corner, nursing a bandaged arm, and an old woman who sat hunched and alone, eyes darting nervously, like she wasn’t even sure where she was or why.

Should she even be here?

The room stank of bleach and sweat, and the linoleum floor, scuffed from the shuffle of a thousand feet, only added to the sense of bleakness. A harsh fluorescent light hummed overhead, so bright it was likely to trigger a migraine. He massaged his temples, willing the tension away.

This was what he had rushed for? Thirty minutes ago, he’d received the call. They hadn’t told him much, just that she’d been in an accident. That he should come, urgently. He’d grabbed his coat and flown out the door, barely registering anything between his flat and the hospital, heart racing in a way it hadn’t in years. But for what? For this? This cavalcade of piss-heads and patchwork bandages, the waft of stale urine?

Zoe, what have you done now? he thought bitterly. They had a reservation tonight. Three months. They’d waited three months for this table, and now, here he was - here they both were, in some grimy hospital, waiting for God knows what.

He glared at the nurses behind the desk. Two of them chatted idly into phones, voices low, their conversation punctuated with nods and the occasional smile. They looked like they were on the line to their grandmothers, for all the urgency they radiated. Meanwhile, the third moved with the precision of a machine, flicking through papers, tapping into computers, barking orders, seemingly handling the entire chaos of the night with the dexterity of a tournament champion. Niko allowed himself a grim smile.

“If you want something done, ask a busy person,” he muttered under his breath.

But when he reached the desk and gave his name—Niko Angelopoulos—the tone shifted. There was a moment of recognition, and within seconds, he was ushered away from the filthy rabble and into a small, sterile room. Quiet. Uncomfortably so.

A nurse appeared, a whisper of empathy in her eyes as she asked him to sit. “The doctor will be with you shortly,” she said, closing the door behind her with the finality of a judge’s gavel.

Niko sat. His fingers gripped his phone so hard that the edges almost drew blood. What was taking so long? Was this their way of punishing him for having the gall to demand answers? He checked the time again. 30 minutes. The minutes dragged, each tick of his watch stretching eternity, feeding the creeping sense of dread coiling in his stomach.

This is Zoe’s fault, he thought again, the unfairness of it, the stubbornness of her cycling obsession. She refused to listen—to him, to her parents, to anyone. The bike was economy, efficiency, a middle finger to the traffic, the public transport system. But Niko had always known it would come to this. He could almost hear her parents now—“We told her. We warned her.”

With a sigh, Niko thumbed open his phone and dialled. Zoe’s parents would need to be told, though the thought of speaking to them filled him with dread. Mike and Sarah had likely settled in for the evening, a couple of drinks, the telly on full volume, their ageing ears struggling to keep up with the noise.

The line rang for what felt like too long before Mike answered, his voice faint under the blare of some game show or sitcom.

“Niko? What’s up? Everything alright?”

Niko opened his mouth, but the words faltered. How could he just say it? The shock in his throat, still lodged like glass, hadn’t yet cleared. He didn’t even fully understand what had happened yet.

"Zoe... she’s had an accident."

There was a beat of silence on the other end, and the TV volume seemed to double. Niko could hear Sarah laughing in the background, oblivious.

"What kind of accident?" Mike’s voice, once jovial, had sharpened.

"I— I don’t know the full details yet. But I’m at St Thomas’. I think you should come."

He wasn’t sure if it was the rushed phrasing or the tension crackling in his voice, but Mike caught on faster than Niko had expected.

"We’ll be right there."

The line went dead.

Niko let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. He felt like he was holding something even heavier now—her parents’ grief, the weight of responsibility, like some cold stone settling into his chest.

He dropped his phone into his lap and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to focus. It isn’t real yet, he told himself. They haven’t said anything. He wasn’t even sure what he would do when they did—when they came back to tell him the worst.

His mother’s number flashed on his phone next. He picked it up mechanically, her soft voice reaching across the miles, disarming him in ways nothing else could.

"Niko, mou, how are you?"

Her tone, casual and kind, sent him tumbling over the edge. He opened his mouth, but no words came. He was paralyzed, the weight of the evening’s terror finally pulling him under.

"Are you there? Niko?"

And then it hit him.

The void. Zoe was gone. Somehow he knew. He felt it in the strange loosening of his limbs. It was over. Everything else, the hospital, the nurses, the horde outside, it all dissolved into a distant hum. A world without Zoe... He couldn’t fathom it. It felt like the moment a conductor drops his baton mid-performance and the music screeches to a halt.

“FUCK! Fucking shit fuck”.