The ICU did not look dramatic.
That was the first betrayal.
Lorrlyne had expected urgency to announce itself. Sirens. Shouting. A corridor sprint. Something unmistakable that would let her meet fear head on like an opponent with a name. Instead, the unit received her with quiet competence, dim lighting, and a kind of disciplined stillness that suggested the real danger was not noise, but time.
Zane lay behind glass.
He was not in a private room that pretended illness was polite. This room made no attempt to soften reality. Monitors glowed. Tubing traced pale lines across his skin and into the machinery. A humidified hiss of oxygen rose and fell in the background with the steady, insistent patience of something that did not care about pride.
His chest moved.
Not fully on its own.
