Illyana's POV
The antiseptic smell of the hospital, usually a comforting backdrop to my work, now felt cloying, suffocating. The rhythmic beeping of Sofia’s heart monitor was a relentless pulse in the otherwise silent room, each beep a hammer blow against my raw nerves. She lay motionless on the crisp white sheets, her face pale and drawn, a stark contrast to the vibrant, laughing woman I knew and loved. Physically, the doctors assured us, she was unharmed. But the emptiness in her eyes, the way she flinched at every sound, every movement, spoke of a deeper wound, a trauma that ran far beneath the surface.
I sat perched on the edge of the uncomfortable plastic chair beside her bed, my hand clasped tightly around hers. My knuckles were white, my fingers numb, but I didn’t loosen my grip.
