The low hum of the bedside monitor was the only sound in the room, its rhythmic beeping a cruel reminder of time slipping away. The hospital's pale yellow light made everything look washed out, but even under its glow, Storm's presence seemed larger than life. The man who ruled the streets with an iron fist now sat quietly beside your bed, his face a mask of control, but his eyes betraying the storm within.

He held your hand tightly, as though his grip alone could anchor you to this world. He hadn't spoken much, but that was typical. Words weren't his weapon of choice; silence was. And yet, tonight, he seemed on the verge of saying something—anything—if only to stop the inevitable.

The door creaked open, and Ysabella padded in, clutching a stuffed rabbit. Her curly dark hair framed her innocent face as she climbed up onto the chair beside her father.

“Mommy,” she whispered, her voice soft, unaware of the gravity hanging over the room. “Are you feeling better?”

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’m okay, sweetie. Just a little tired.”

Storm shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening. Ysabella looked up at him, her big brown eyes full of trust. “Papa says you’re strong, like a superhero.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips—a rare and fleeting sight. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Ysabella’s head. “Your mama’s the strongest person I know,” he murmured, his voice gravelly but tender.