The bitter tang of hospital coffee clung to the air as Jackson Romero gripped the paper cup, his knuckles white around it. The caffeine did nothing to steady him.
His mind was a warzone, images of Rio's broken body under surgical light flashing behind his eyes, the metallic reek of blood still caught in his nostrils, the relentless thought: What if I had been too late?
He had held countless lives in his hands, but tonight the scalpel had cut deeper than flesh. It had cut into his very soul.
His son's life balanced on a thread, and he was still dangling over the abyss with him.
Jack's footsteps echoed as he descended the stairs, seeking some air, some reprieve. But fate wasn't done with him yet.
Because at the bottom of the steps, framed by the pale glow of the hospital lam
