Third-Person POV
The tires of Mikhail's Porsche screamed as he took the hospital ramp at sixty.
Two black SUVs full of his men skidded in behind him, doors flying open before the vehicles even stopped.
The emergency bay lights painted everything red and blue, strobing across Mikhail's face like war paint.
A nurse tried to intercept him at the doors.
"Sir, you can't—"
He didn't slow.
"Where's Aleksei Volkov?"
"ICU, fourth floor, but family only—"
He shoved past her, boots pounding the linoleum. His men fanned out behind him like a dark tide.
The ICU was chaos: nurses crying, security guards pale and useless, blood smeared across the floor in long streaks.
Mikhail's vision tunneled.
He found Aleksei in a glass-walled room, hooked to machines
