The medical wing thrummed with a different frequency this morning, anticipation threading through sterile air like smoke through crystal. Alec stood before Ceecee's pod, his reflection warped in frost-kissed glass that had held her for seven months—seven months of dreams he couldn't share, battles he couldn't fight beside her, a world remade while she floated in suspension like some fairy tale princess awaiting resurrection.
But this was no fairy tale. The four who'd died—Rachel with her warrior's heart, Leila who'd danced like flame made flesh, Melanie whose laughter could light whole rooms, Sarah who'd trusted with the faith of saints—their ghosts pressed against the glass alongside his reflection, reminding him that happy endings were bought with blood.
"Vitals optimal," Dr. Hathaway
