The ICU at St. Agatha General Hospital was a realm of silent chaos, where machines hummed softly and monitors beeped at constant intervals. She had always despised hospitals; the empty walls, the strong smell of antiseptic in the air.

The room where she lay was no different: small, isolated, filled with the persistent sounds of the medical team constantly monitoring her fragile condition. She had been admitted for a faint due to stress, which led to a quick transfer to the ICU. Now, her skin was pale, a thin layer of sweat still clung to her forehead, but the worst was finally over and her body was beginning to recover.

Dr. Charlie Mayhew, M.D., was standing by the door, reading his chart with a concentrated frown. The glow of the hallway light cast a faint shadow over his face, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw and the tiredness in his eyes, his dark hair disheveled by hair gel after another long shift. He had been assigned to the girl's case since his arrival the previous week, diligently monitoring her progress. But despite the need to maintain a professional distance, there was something about her that had caught his attention in a way he couldn't help. There was a quiet resilience in her, a strength he had glimpsed even through her weakened state. Charlie's gaze drifted from the chart to the girl, lying in the hospital bed, her eyelids open as if she sensed his presence. He stepped forward, the clipboard lowered to his side as he approached his bed, his steps silent against the polished floor.

He greeted her with a firm but softer voice than usual. “You're awake. How are you feeling?"