Isla’s POV
The hallway outside the ward smelled like antiseptic and something metallic underneath it, like fear had a scent and the hospital couldn’t scrub it out completely.
I sat on one of the plastic chairs with my phone in my hands, screen dark, knees pulled together too tightly. My body felt hollow, like everything important had been scooped out and replaced with noise.
My phone buzzed. I flinched so hard it almost slipped from my fingers.
Sienna.
I stared at her name for a full three seconds before answering.
“Isla,” she said immediately. No greeting. No teasing. Just my name, sharp with concern. “You said you were at the hospital. What happened?”
Her background was quiet. No music. No voices. I swallowed. My throat burned.
“Zayne got shot.”
Silence.
Not the shocked kind.
