The operating room reeked of iron and old dust.
The patient’s breaths came in thin, ragged whispers.
Four rifles stayed trained on Vincent’s back.
The only steady sound was the monitor’s feeble beep—each one a countdown I couldn’t escape.
Ten minutes had passed since he disappeared behind that door.
Ten minutes that stretched into centuries.
I paced the hallway outside, biting the skin around my thumbnail until it bled.
No nurses allowed. No help. Just Vincent and Felix against impossible odds, surrounded by men who would execute them if the leader died.
He’s the best, I kept telling myself.
He wouldn’t have stepped forward if he didn’t believe he could do it.
But belief didn’t stop the terror clawing up my throat.
Not fear he would fail the patient—fear he would never walk out
