The sterile hum of the Evergreen Premier Institute was a cold contrast to the chaotic violence of the crash. This was a facility built for the elite, where the walls were soundproofed with silk-lined panels and the air was filtered to perfection.
Silas Armitage stood behind the reinforced glass of the Intensive Care Unit, his shadow long and sharp against the polished linoleum. Inside, Arm lay submerged in a sea of tubes and wires. The "Prince of the City" was now nothing more than a broken collection of bones and failing vitals.
Silas didn't look at his son with the grief of a father; he looked at him with the disappointment of a king looking at a fallen monument.
Controlled by love, Silas thought, his jaw tightening. A man who could have owned the continent, brought to ruin by a obsession with a doctor who doesn't even want to be found.
