The sterile hum of the ICU machines had become the soundtrack of my existence. Hours blurred into one another as I remained anchored to the chair beside Dario’s bed, my fingers interlaced with his cold ones. The doctors had adjusted his medications again after the latest round of scans, but there was still no sign of him waking from the induced coma. His chest rose and fell with mechanical assistance, the bandages covering the wounds where the bullets had torn through him. Every beep of the monitor sent a fresh wave of anxiety through me, even when the readings remained stable. I kept replaying the terrace dinner in my mind — the quiet conversation, his warm hand in mine, the sudden crack of gunfire, and the way he had thrown his body over mine without hesitation. He had protected me at th
