Daniel sat still, jaw tight, the sterile white light of the VIP room flickering across the gloss of Regina's oxygen mask. Beeping monitors ticked like a clock, each beat echoing louder in his head than it should have. She lay pale, motionless, her face swollen in places, lip split at the corner. There were bandages, bruises, wires—and that damn mask over her mouth that made her look far more breakable than she had any right to.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to Regina.
He ignored the phone buzzing again. Her mother's name lit up the screen. He didn't answer.
He wouldn't. Not yet.
He reached forward, brushing a curl of dried blood from her temple. His hand trembled, but he kept his expression solemn. She hated pity. She hated silence. She hated hospitals. So he filled the quiet with a whisper.
"You look like hell, Regina."
No answer. Of course not.
