Mikhail's POV
The private wing smelled of sharp bleach, cold metal, and the faint sweetness of antiseptic that never quite masked the underlying scent of sickness. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too white, turning every face ghostly. I stood at the observation window, palms pressed to the cool glass, watching the doctors move around Elias like silent machines. The steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor cut through the hush, each sound a hammer against my ribs.
Nora sat hunched in the plastic chair beside the bed, drowning in my black hoodie. The sleeves swallowed her hands; only her fingertips peeked out, white-knuckled around Elias's limp fingers. Her hair was a wild tangle from my hands hours ago, falling over her face in dark ropes. She hadn't cried since
