The hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic and industrial soap, cool air-conditioning pressing against their skin like invisible hands as Matteo pushed the heavy glass doors open.
Felix walked beside him, his hand brushing against Matteo's now and then—small, unconscious touches that spoke of a need for reassurance he couldn't quite voice.
At the reception desk, a nurse in pale blue scrubs looked up from her computer screen with a warm but practiced smile, the kind perfected by years of greeting anxious patients and their families.
"Good morning. Appointment name?" she asked, her pen hovering above the appointment register with efficient readiness.
"Felix Moretti," Matteo answered smoothly, his voice carrying the quiet authority that made people listen without question.
