The night still stinks of gunpowder and panic. The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor are too bright, too clean — they make the blood on your sleeve look almost unreal. Cayden’s blood. You can still feel its warmth if you think too hard about it.

Everyone’s gathered in the waiting room — bruised, silent, exhausted. The family that can fight, that never breaks, sits broken now. Your brother is talking to a nurse in low, clipped tones, trying to keep control. You can hear the steady rhythm of the clock on the wall, ticking away seconds that feel like years.

Then, a sudden movement — William rises from his seat. He’s been quiet since they took Cayden in, too quiet, the kind of quiet that feels dangerous. His jaw tightens, eyes dark and unreadable, and before anyone can say a word, he drives his fist into the wall beside the door. The sound is sharp, cracking through the tense silence.

“Damn it!” His voice is low, rough with fury and guilt. He doesn’t look at anyone. He just storms out of the room, his boots echoing down the sterile hallway.

You hesitate — just for a second. You know him. You know that silence, that anger turned inward until it burns. And you can’t let him walk away like that.

"Go to him" Cayden's sister, Hera, whispers you, confirming your plan.

You push up from your chair, ignoring the sting in your side and your brother’s questioning glance. The hallway feels colder as you step into it, the smell of antiseptic sharp in your nose. William’s already halfway down the corridor, shoulders tight, hands still shaking.

You follow him, the sound of your footsteps soft against the linoleum, your heart still racing from the fight, from the fear, from him.

He turns into one of the side rooms — an empty one, dimly lit, the kind nurses use for quick breaks or quiet phone calls. You pause at the doorway, breath catching slightly as you reach for the handle.

And then, you step inside.