She was dying. And she decided to take our peace with her.
The hospital corridors smelled like antiseptic and despair. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in sickly brightness that made the shadows seem darker by contrast. Elara's hand was locked in Kairos's, both of them holding on like they were each other's anchor in a storm they couldn't yet see coming.
Room 847. ICU. Private, of course. Nothing but the best for Victoria Vance, even in death.
Kairos paused outside the door, his hand on the handle, his breathing shallow. "You don't have to do this. You can wait outside. You can—"
"We go together," Elara repeated. "Whatever she says. Whatever happens. Together."
He nodded. Squeezed her hand one more time. Pushed open the door.
Victoria Vance looked like a different person.
