Alexander Kane
The hospital’s ICU was a sterile cage, its beeps and whispers a cruel reminder of how fragile life was. Sofia lay propped on pillows, her silver hair a halo against the white sheets, her eyes sharp despite the tubes snaking into her arms. Elena sat at her bedside, clutching her mother’s hand like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world. Marco hovered nearby, his hoodie torn, his laptop open on a rolling tray, fingers twitching over keys as he monitored FBI channels for any sign of Victor. The nurse’s words, “Victor’s transport was ambushed. He’s gone.”, hung in the air like a guillotine, slicing through the fragile hope we’d clung to in the gala’s aftermath.
I stood by the window, the Manhattan skyline glittering beyond the glass, mocking our victory. Victo
