Nora's POV
The cab screeched to a stop outside the sleek, glass-fronted Romanov family hospital, its cold exterior reflecting the city's neon glow like a polished blade. My heart pounded as I shoved bills at the driver and bolted into the lobby, the sharp sting of antiseptic hitting me like a slap. At the reception desk, I barely managed to choke out, "Elias Faez. Where is he?"
The receptionist, a woman with a tight bun and a detached air, checked her screen. "Private ward, fifth floor. Room 512. Someone's waiting for you."
I didn't wait for more, sprinting to the elevator, my sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. The ride up was torture, my mind spiraling with images of Elias—hurt, lost, gone. When the doors slid open, I saw him—Mikhail, leaning against the wall outside
