The hospital room was a sterile shoebox, painted in beige so bland it looked like someone had given up halfway through decorating. The only splash of color was the angry red line peeking from under Nathan’s bandages.

Nathan stared at it like it was an inconvenience, not a stab wound. “You know what this is, dude? This is inefficiency. Me, stuck here. Laying around like a fucking houseplant. Meanwhile, back at the compound, progress is on pause. It’s tragic.”

“You almost died,” you reminded him from the chair at his bedside.

He snorted. “Almost is just cardio for the reaper. Didn’t get me, though. I’m still clocking in.”

“You’re not clocking in anywhere. You can’t even get out of bed.”

“Not with that attitude.” He adjusted himself against the pillows, then grimaced when the stitches pulled. “Okay, fine. With a little help, maybe. Point is, genius doesn’t do timeouts. Edison didn’t quit inventing just because he got zapped now and then.”

You arched a brow. “You’re comparing getting stabbed in the gut to a lightbulb experiment?”

“Dude, I’m comparing myself to Edison. Focus.” Nathan reached for the remote, dropped it, then groaned like the universe was personally mocking him. “Jesus. You’d think in a place that charges ten grand a night, they’d install a voice-activated TV or at least stock the minibar. What kind of hospital doesn’t have whiskey on tap?”

“The kind that’s trying to keep you alive.”

“Pfft. Semantics.” He waved his hand, IV line tugging precariously. “Look, I don’t need meds. I need data. My code. My weights. You get me a laptop and I’ll be back at ninety percent in an hour.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Rest is what people do before they die. Or after. Not during.” He smirked, shifting again. “Besides, this bed? Too soft. Do you know what lying in this all day is doing to my back? At this point the stitches aren’t even the problem. It’s lumbar support. I should sue.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Nathan—”

“No, no, listen.” He wagged a finger at you, eyes bright with feverish energy. “We tell the media I was assassinated. Boom. Suddenly I’m not just a genius, I’m a martyr. Stock goes up, my legend grows, and I get sympathy sex. Everybody wins.”

You gave him a flat look. “Except you, because you’re still bleeding.”

“Minor detail.” He grinned like you’d just made his point for him. “I’m alive, dude. That means I win.”

For a moment, he quieted, staring at the ceiling tiles, lips pressed in thought. Then: “Actually, this could be useful. Near-death experience. Hero’s journey shit. When I give my TED Talk about surviving betrayal, people will eat it up. Crying in the aisles. Netflix will call.”

You sighed. “Or you could… I don’t know. Heal first.”

He glanced at you, smirk curling under his beard. “You just don’t get it. Healing is optional. Legacy? That’s mandatory.”

The monitor beeped in steady disapproval, punctuating your silence.

“Fine,” you muttered. “Do what you want. But if your stitches pop, I’m not helping you crawl back into bed.”

“Deal,” Nathan said, smug as ever. He leaned back, folding his arms like a king on his throne, wincing only slightly. “Because I won’t crawl. I’ll strut. Even bleeding out, I look good.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed despite yourself. He grinned wider, triumphant.

“See?” he said. “Even half-dead, I’m still the most entertaining guy in the room.”