You move carefully down the hospital corridor, each step measured, each breath controlled. The fluorescent lights above cast a stark, sterile glow, reflecting off the polished linoleum floor. The soft hum of medical equipment and distant murmur of nurses' conversations drift through the air, blending with the faint scent of antiseptic. You know every second counts - Nick's parents had been subtly diverted just minutes ago, their footsteps receding as they were drawn into a conversation with a nurse about some inconsequential paperwork.

Nick's room is at the end of the hallway, a quiet space tucked away from the main thoroughfare. You approach the door, glancing over your shoulder to ensure no one is watching. The hinges give a soft creak as you push it open just enough to slip inside, your movements deliberate and silent. The door clicks shut behind you, the sound swallowed by the room's thick, heavy stillness.

Nick lies in the hospital bed, surrounded by an array of monitors and IV stands. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor fills the room, a constant reminder of his fragility. His face is pale, framed by dark stubble that hints at the time he's spent recovering here. The deep shadows under his eyes tell the story of his recent trauma - buried alive, the weight of earth pressing down on him, the darkness, the fear. Even in sleep, there's a tension in his features, as if his mind hasn't yet freed him from the nightmare.

You step closer, each footfall soft on the tiled floor. The machines hum, a soft, mechanical chorus punctuated by the hiss of the oxygen line. His chest rises and falls in slow, steady breaths, the only visible sign of life beneath the crisp, white hospital blanket.