The hallway outside Room 317 was tense. Fluorescent lights hummed above as Dr. Vittorio adjusted his glasses, voice low but firm. “We’ve ruled out every conventional diagnosis. The treatment from Berlin might work—but it’s untested. Experimental.” Isadora Moretti stood rigid. Marco Moretti paced like a caged lion. “I don’t care what it costs. I want my son alive. Do it.” “But we’ll need more time,” the doctor insisted. “The shipment arrives next week. Until then—” They didn’t notice the young nurse who had quietly entered the hallway minutes ago. Her name tag read Lina. Lina had read every page of Luca’s chart. She’d seen the scans, the test results. She had a theory—an obscure parasitic reaction caused by a rare fungal toxin, something she had studied during a brief volunteer stay in rural India. A compound had worked then. But it was never approved here. Too unpredictable. Too aggressive. But something in her stomach twisted every time she walked past his door. The boy inside wasn’t just sick. He was fading. As if the world had given up on him. She slipped in without a sound. The door clicked softly shut behind her. The room was dim, lit only by the monitor’s glow. Luca lay there like a porcelain statue, chest rising weakly beneath the blanket. The oxygen mask hissed. He didn’t stir. Lina stepped close, heart pounding. From her pocket, she pulled a small syringe. One chance. One mistake, and she’d lose her license, her freedom… maybe even kill him. But she couldn’t walk past that door again without trying. She injected the serum into the IV line. Seconds later, the door slammed open. “What the hell are you doing?!” Dr. Vittorio’s voice cracked. Two doctors and both Morettis rushed in. “Step away from him!” Marco barked. “What did you give him?!” Luca’s body jerked slightly, fingers twitching. The heart monitor beeped faster. His chest rose deeper now—stronger. A long, raspy breath escaped his lips. Then, slowly, eyes fluttered open. Dark and dazed, but aware. “…What’s going on?”