Mina's footsteps echoed loudly as she ran through the sterile corridor, which stretched endlessly ahead of her. Her breath came in sharp, panicked gasps, each clawing at her chest. Adams followed closely, his longer strides eating up the distance, yet his composure remained firm and organized.
They arrived at the ICU corridor in a state of tension and dread.
The monitors were beeping in rapid, uneven rhythms. The nurses moved with brisk urgency, their voices clipped and their hands precise. Sadiq stood at the center, already gloved, barking instructions as he scanned the screens flashing vital signs in angry shades of red and yellow.
"What's happening?" Mina cried, trying to push forward.
A nurse blocked her, gently but firmly. "Please, you can't come any further."
"Sadiq!" Adams called out. "Talk to us."
Sadiq didn't look away from the monitor. "She had a sudden cardiac episode," he said quickly. "We anticipated complications, but not this soon."
Mina's knees weakened. Adams caught her instinctively, his arm steady around her shoulders.
"Is she dying?" Mina whispered, her voice barely audible.
Sadiq finally turned to her. His expression was serious, but not hopeless. "She's unstable—but she's alive. And we're not losing her."
He turned back sharply. "Prep the beta-blocker. Increase oxygen. Call cardiology—now!"
Mina pressed her face into Adams's chest, trembling violently. She could hear his heart beneath her ear—strong and unyielding—anchoring her when her own felt ready to give out.
"I can't lose her," she sobbed. "I can't."
"You won't," Adams said quietly, though the certainty he projected was hard-won. "She's not alone. Neither are you."
Minutes dragged on like hours. Every alarm sent a fresh wave of terror through Mina's body. Adams never moved away. He didn't speak unless she needed grounding; his presence was constant, deliberate, and protective.
Finally, the beeping slowed.
The frantic movements eased into something more controlled. A nurse exhaled audibly. Sadiq straightened, removing his gloves, his shoulders sagging with restrained relief.
"She's stabilizing," he said. "Her heart responded to the medication."
Mina lifted her head slowly, afraid to believe him. "You're sure?"
"For now," Sadiq replied honestly. "She's still critical, but she's fighting. And tonight, she's winning."
The words broke something inside Mina. She sank into a chair, her hands covering her face as quiet, exhausted tears spilled through her fingers.
Adams crouched in front of her, lowering himself to her level. "You did well, dearie," he said softly. "She needed you to be strong. And you were."
She shook her head weakly. "I don't feel strong."
"That's usually how strength feels," he said.
At that moment, the hospital waiting room felt unreal, as though it existed outside of time itself—suspended between exhaustion and fragile hope. Every second stretched, heavy and unforgiving.
Overhead, fluorescent bulbs hummed relentlessly, their sterile light bleaching the room of warmth. Beneath it, the faint murmur of distressed families blended with the mechanical whirr of an aging ceiling fan. The air was thick with antiseptic and the suffocating stillness of held breath.
There was something in this place far stronger than fear. Even the padded vinyl chairs offered no comfort; they were cold reminders that everyone seated there was waiting for news capable of rewriting their lives.
Behind the heavy swinging doors, the nurses were fighting for Safiya's life.
Mina sat rigid, her fingers knotted tightly in her lap, her heart racing as her thoughts spiraled uncontrollably. She clung to the same silent prayer, repeating it again and again, as though it were the only thing holding her together.
Adams sat next to her.