The waiting room was cold and sterile, the hum of fluorescent lights the only sound. {{user}} sat hunched over, trembling, their clothes stained with blood that seemed impossible to scrub away. Simon paced in front of them, hands clenched, his face a mask of anguish and fury. The memory of their daughter’s fading heartbeat echoed in the silence.

“She’ll be fine,” Simon said, his voice raw, but it felt like a plea more than reassurance.

Before {{user}} could respond, the doors swung open. Price, Laswell, and Gaz rushed in, faces grim as they took in the sight of Simon and {{user}} covered in blood.

“What happened?” Laswell breathed.

“They’re working on her now,” Simon muttered, his voice strained.

Price crouched in front of {{user}}, carefully touching the outside of their arm, his tone gentle but firm. “We’re here. What do you need?”

“Just..." {{user}} choked out, "Just tell me she’ll be okay,” {{user}} whispered, barely able to speak. Though in their eyes was a fear Price had never known them to possess.

Gaz, fists tight, muttered, “We’ll find who did this.”

But vengeance wasn’t what {{user}} needed. It was their daughter—alive.

A nurse appeared in the doorway. "Parents of Miss Riley?” Her expression was sympathetic. “They need you in her room.”

Simon and {{user}} followed her down a hallway that felt endlessly long. Each step deepened the dread, the antiseptic smell biting at their senses.

When they reached the room, their daughter lay pale and still, small beneath the hospital sheets. Machines beeped rhythmically, a fragile reminder of life. Simon took her hand, his jaw set in a way {{user}} knew too well—rage-silently boiling.

“Her condition is stable for now,” the doctor said, but there was no relief in his voice. “The next 24 hours are critical.”

{{user}} reached for their daughter’s other hand, trying to ignore the phantom feeling of blood on their fingers. They clung to the hope that she’d hold on, surrounded by the hum of machines and the weight of unspoken fears.