Mild awoke with a jolt, instantly alert, realizing he had slept upright in a chair beside Arm's bed. He checked the monitors: Arm's fever had broken, and his vitals were stabilizing. He looked exhausted, but alive.
Arm, no longer delirious, was watching him with a focused, analytical gaze.
"You look like you've been run over by a train, Doctor," Arm said, his voice weak but clear. "You were asleep, but not resting. What's the problem? Is your 'perfect life' in Switzerland crumbling faster than you admitted?"
Mild hesitated, running a hand over his face. He hadn't meant to share this with Arm, the one man who would weaponize vulnerability. But the pressure was suffocating.
"She's pregnant," Mild finally replied, the words a heavy stone in the quiet room.
Arm's eyebrows shot up. "Elena? Chasing the syllabus, aren't we, Doctor? Congratulations. I'll buy the maternity wing."
"No," Mild whispered, shaking his head. "It's Celestine. The President's daughter."
