A few more days passed, and time turned into something ugly.
Not measured in hours anymore, but in monitor alarms, lab results, dose schedules, and the way everyone's eyes kept flicking toward the same doors as if staring hard enough could make them open with good news.
The treatment had started.
Hormones. Aggressive induction. A controlled assault on an eight-year-old's body in the hope that it would awaken fast enough to defend itself.
Arion remained mostly sedated because waking meant fear, and fear meant volatility, which was the one variable that even the best doctors detested.
But the sedation didn't make the tension go away.
It just trapped it in the halls.
Otto tried to work.
