Scorpion's Shadow

shock

The operating room doors slammed shut behind the stretcher.

A bright light flooded the room, bouncing off the silver trays, the white walls, and the stainless steel instruments that glinted like small weapons. The team wore gloves and masks, moving quickly. There was no time for introductions—just survival.

Siraj's small body lay limp on the table, his skin damp and pale—very pale. His white school shirt was soaked with blood, clinging to his chest like a second skin.

"Vital signs are collapsing—blood pressure 70 over 40—it's circling the drain!"

"Prepare for a quick blood transfusion—give me type O blood now!"

"The wound is deep—possible liver damage! Suction, now—"

The lead surgeon, Dr. Hadi, bent over the boy's abdomen, which had been meticulously incised. His hands were steady, but his voice betrayed the pressure. There was severe internal bleeding. The blade had pierced the muscle and sliced ​​through the left lobe of the liver. We have to close this wound—now!

Blood gushed from the wound like a muffled scream. Thick, red, and endless.

The anesthesiologist checked the equipment. "He's tachycardic. His heart is beating fast, but his blood pressure is dropping too low. We're losing him."

Another nurse rushed in with two fresh bags of blood. "Get them in. No time to wait."

The room was thrown into chaos. The monitor's ticking danced dangerously close to a straight line. The surgical lights cast a harsh glow on Siraj's chest as Dr. Hadi inserted a catheter, widening the incision. Blood spurted. Suction screamed. The gauze soaked through instantly.

"His body is in shock," someone yelled.

"Come on, kid," Dr. Hadi muttered to himself. "You're 15. Too young for this. Stay with us."

"Press! Press! The liver's torn at the edge. We need to stitch the wound now."

Hands moved in a dance—urgent, quick, sharp. A scalpel here. A cauterizer there. Smoke rose as the tissue was sealed with a whoosh.

"He's not clotting well," a nurse warned. "He's lost too much."

The monitor screamed.

"Code blue—he's collapsing—load the paddles!"

"No—no, we're stabilizing! Blood pressure's rising—90 over 60—keep the fluids!"

After nearly three hours, the bleeding finally began to slow. The wound closed layer by layer, closing like a war scar. The silence that followed was more deafening than the chaos.

But Seraj didn't wake up.

Not even when they removed the ventilator.

Not when they called his name.

"He's in a coma," the anesthesiologist whispered, removing her mask. Her eyes were tired. "We saved him... but barely."

The chief surgeon sighed, slowly removing his gloves as if each finger bore the weight of a life.

"He lasted longer than anyone," said Dr. Hadi. "He wanted to live. I saw it."

They moved his body into the recovery room of the intensive care unit, covered in clean white sheets. The monitors attached to his chest beeped rhythmically—the quiet drums of war.

Siraj lay there like a glass child—untouchable, unmoving. His hair was drenched with sweat. His lips were cracked. His skin was pale.

They had stopped the bleeding.

But no one could be sure he would ever open his eyes again.

The halls were stark white.

Strictly clean.

Strictly quiet for what Daniel felt inside.

Each footstep echoed in his head like a gunshot as he walked toward Intensive Care Room 9, where the boy he had raised—his son—lay unconscious after bleeding out in the arms of strangers.

Siraj's friend walked beside him, his shoes squeaking softly on the linoleum. Tim. The most nervous of them all, but the one Siraj always trusted to talk to. Tim's face was pale and dry, as if he hadn't slept, eaten, or even blinked in hours.

They stopped outside the room. There was a window.

Behind the glass, Siraj lay motionless.

Daniel's breath caught. He didn't move. He couldn't.

The boy inside the room... wasn't the Siraj he knew.

He looked so small in the hospital bed, dwarfed by the wires and machines. An IV was in his arm, oxygen was gently flowing through a nasal tube. The heart monitor was making a slow, squeaky sound. His chest rose and fell—just barely.

His color was unnatural. His skin was yellowish, with bruises around his ribs and lower abdomen. His lips were pale. There was a bandage just below his side, where the blade had nearly killed him.

And his eyes...

They were closed.

So still.

Deadly silence.

Daniel reached for the doorknob. His fingers trembled.

Tim looked up at him, his voice hoarse. "He's been like this since they took him out... They say he might hear us. But they don't know if he'll wake up or not."

Daniel opened the door.

The room smelled like disinfectant. Like cold metal and soft cotton and pain.

He walked in slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter what was left of the boy. Tim stayed on the edge, his fingers clutching the sketchbook he'd brought with him. "I didn't know where to put it... I thought he might want it soon if... you know... he woke up."

Daniel moved to the side of the bed. The sounds of each device rattled like a hammer in his chest.

He sat up.

Cautiously.

He stared.

For the first time since Siraj was five, Daniel felt helpless.

"I told myself I'd protect you," he thought.

"I promised I'd never let anyone touch you again. And yet... here you are. Hurt. Bleeding. Broken. Under my watch."

He reached for Siraj's hand. He hesitated. He touched it gently.

It was cold.

He hated it.

"I should have been there," he whispered loudly.

Tim turned away, his eyes blazing, but he said nothing.

"I should have stopped this before it got anywhere near you."

Daniel leaned forward, his forehead touching Siraj's knuckles.

"You fought hard, didn't you, little lion?" he whispered. "You always do."

There was no answer.

Only the whir of oxygen.

Only the wheezing.

Only the long silence between the heartbreak.

Tim walked forward slowly, his voice cracking. "He... once said he didn't know how to feel safe unless you were in the room. Even when he was angry at you, he felt better when you were there."

Daniel looked up, now wet, but unreadable. "Then why did you let him get into a war I didn't stop?"

Tim sat in the chair opposite him. "Because you trusted him to grow up. And he did. It's not your fault." The two sat in silence, listening to the boy they loved breathe with the help of a machine.

Then the two of them left, and Tim said to Daniel, "I want to tell you something. I think I know why Siraj is in this state."

The hospital room was silent. The machines whispered softly around Siraj's body.

Daniel stood by the window. He thought it was a rival mafia. His arms were crossed, his jaw clenched. He hadn't spoken in a while, but Tim knew he was waiting. He was waiting to be explained to him after Tim had told him it was because of Yassin.

Waiting to understand.

Tim cleared his throat, his voice low, and began to speak.