The door opened with a soft click.
Martin Stem stepped in, dressed in a dark tailored suit. His presence filled the quiet room.
Alexander sat up slightly, unsure what to say.
Martin glanced at him, then spoke first — calm, composed.
"You look better than I expected."
Alexander nodded slowly.
Martin paused, then added:
"No lectures. Just checking in. How are you feeling?"
"Fine. Still sore," Alexander replied.
Martin gave a short nod.
"Good. That's enough for now."
"You remember anything?" he asked calmly
"About what?" Alexander said, guarded.
Martin's expression didn't change. "The night you ended up here."
Alexander hesitated. "Not really. Everything's… fuzzy."
"Convenient," Martin muttered, almost to himself. Then, louder: "Doctors said your injuries were self-inflicted. Alcohol. Narcotics. Glass bottle to the leg. Almost bled out."
Alexander didn't respond. He didn't need to. The silence spoke for him.
Martin's eyes narrowed, not in anger, but analysis — like he was measuring something.
"You've always been reckless, but this was… different."
He paced once, then turned back.
"They said you were screaming. Not at anyone — just screaming. Then you grabbed a bottle and—" he gestured loosely toward the brace, "—well. Here we are."
Alexander met his gaze. "I don't remember that version of me."
Martin didn't smile. "Neither do I."
He stepped closer to the foot of the bed. The air tightened slightly.
"You've made headlines before, but nothing I couldn't bury. This time was close."
Alexander glanced away. "Why bother?"
Martin raised an eyebrow.
"Because you're still my son. And because I don't want lose my son.
That caught Alexander off guard.
For a second, the air in the room shifted. Not warm — but less cold.
Martin continued, voice even, but quieter.
"You may not remember what happened… but I do remember what it felt like getting that call."
Alexander didn't speak. He couldn't.
"I've buried men for less than what you put me through."
A pause. "But I didn't bury you."
Martin looked down at the floor, as if measuring whether to say more.
"You're lucky," he added finally. "People like us don't usually get second chances."
Alexander met his eyes. "And what if I don't want to waste it?"
Martin gave the smallest nod. Approval… or calculation — hard to tell.
"Then don't," he said. "But if this is the beginning of something new… you'd better be smarter than the last version of yourself."
A quiet moment passed.
Then left without saying anything.