Half the day had slipped by, but Armaan's worry only grew heavier. Zara still hadn't regained consciousness, and he had no way of contacting her family. The silence of the hospital corridors pressed against him, thick and suffocating.
Then, a group of men entered the ward, their steps hurried and their expressions unreadable.
"Where's the girl who was admitted today?" one of them asked the nurse at the reception desk, flashing a forged hospital ID badge she didn't think to question.
The nurse gave quiet directions, oblivious to the undercurrent in their tone.
Armaan's phone buzzed in his pocket, distracting him for a moment. He glanced at the screen. "Who is this?" he muttered before answering. "Hello?"
While he spoke, the men slipped past him. They entered Zara's room, and in a single swift motion, one of them yanked away her oxygen mask. Without a word, they turned and walked out.
A cold rush of panic tore through Armaan. He dropped the call and sprinted toward her room. She lay there, her breathing faltering.
"Doctor!" he shouted, his voice breaking.
"Don't worry, I'm here," the doctor said quickly, rushing to her side and adjusting the mask.
"How is she now?" he demanded, his hands trembling.
"She's stable," the doctor assured him.
His fear boiled into anger. "What kind of hospital lets anyone walk in unchecked? If she had died today—" He stopped himself, his voice sharp enough to cut through the air.
"We're deeply sorry, sir. It will not happen again," the doctor said, lowering his head.
A nurse appeared in the doorway. "She's waking up. You can see her now."
Without hesitation, Armaan rushed inside.