Chapter: The Glass Between Them
The room was quiet.
Not truly quiet.
The steady rhythm of machines filled the darkness.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The sound echoed softly around the ICU room while pale moonlight slipped through a narrow gap in the curtains.
John's breathing remained slow.
Careful.
Assisted.
A transparent tube rested between his lips while oxygen flowed steadily into his lungs.
His body felt unbearably heavy.
Pain lingered everywhere.
A deep ache pulsed through his skull.
His ribs hurt.
His left side felt as though fire had been stitched beneath his skin.
The scent of antiseptic lingered in the cold air.
His fingers twitched.
Once.
Twice.
A faint crease appeared between his brows.
Slowly his eyes opened.
Everything looked blurred.
White ceiling.
Dim lights.
Machines.
For several moments he simply stared.
His thoughts moved sluggishly.
Like someone trying to walk through deep water.
The memory came back in fragments.
The road.
The steering wheel.
The sudden impact.
The violent crash.
Metal twisting.
Glass shattering.
Pain.
His eyes shifted toward the window.
Moonlight.
For a moment he assumed it was midnight.
Had he slept that long?
The thought alone exhausted him.
Even opening his eyes felt difficult.
His body refused to cooperate.
Then another memory surfaced.
The reason he had left the house.
The reason rage had pushed him behind the wheel.
The property deed.
His grandmother's house.
The home she had built with years of sacrifice.
The place filled with memories.
The place someone was trying to sell.
His chest tightened weakly.
The property...
That was his final thought.
Darkness swallowed him once again.
His eyes closed.
The monitor continued its steady rhythm.
Minutes later a nurse entered quietly.
She immediately noticed the slight increase in heart rate recorded moments earlier.
Her experienced eyes softened.
"He woke briefly."
She noted it on his chart.
Carefully she checked the dressing around his head.
No fresh bleeding.
She inspected the wound on his side where surgeons had removed the metal fragment earlier that afternoon.
The bandages remained clean.
She adjusted the blanket higher over his chest.
The young man looked younger while sleeping.
Far younger than the powerful businessman and famous novelist the public knew.
Satisfied, she switched off the brighter examination light and left.
Outside however—
Federal Hospital remained alive.
The building never truly slept.
Stretchers moved through hallways.
Nurses hurried between departments.
Doctors reviewed reports.
Phones rang.
Elevators opened and closed.
The smell of medicine and disinfectant lingered heavily in the air.
Families occupied waiting rooms.
Some prayed.
Some cried.
Some simply waited.
It was only 8:45 PM.
Yet the hospital felt as busy as midday.
And among those arriving—
Mike Bello finally appeared.
He wore simple dark clothing.
Nothing expensive.
Nothing flashy.
For once he looked less like a billionaire businessman and more like an aging father carrying years of regret.
Barnabas walked beside him.
Antonio followed closely.
The three men immediately attracted attention.
Not because they demanded it.
But because people recognized them.
Whispers followed quietly behind their backs.
A few nurses exchanged surprised glances.
Security guards straightened instinctively.
Yet nobody approached.
The expressions on their faces discouraged conversation.
A senior doctor personally guided them toward the ICU.
The automatic doors opened.
Cold air greeted them.
Then they stopped.
A large glass panel separated visitors from patients.
And there—
For the first time—
Barnabas and Antonio saw him.
John.
Neither brother spoke.
Neither moved.
The sight stunned them.
The powerful figure from television.
The bestselling author.
The successful businessman.
The son nobody discussed openly.
All of those titles disappeared behind the glass.
What remained was simply a man fighting to survive.
Machines surrounded him.
Bandages wrapped parts of his body.
Several IV lines ran into his arms.
The ventilator assisted his breathing.
Bruises darkened portions of his pale skin.
Antonio swallowed hard.
The reality felt uncomfortable.
Too human.
Too fragile.
Barnabas folded his arms tightly across his chest.
For years he had imagined meeting John.
Never like this.
Never through glass.
Never while wondering if the man would wake up.
Mike stood frozen.
His eyes remained fixed on John's face.
The resemblance struck him harder than expected.
The older John became, the more he resembled him.
The same jawline.
The same forehead.
The same stubborn expression even while unconscious.
Guilt settled heavily inside Mike's chest.
Years.
Years he could never recover.
Years of missed birthdays.
Missed conversations.
Missed opportunities.
Years spent convincing himself there would always be another chance.
Another tomorrow.
Now he wasn't so certain.
The doctor beside them finally spoke.
"Mr. Mike"
Mike looked away from the glass.
"How is he?"
The doctor opened the medical file.
His voice remained professional.
"The surgery was successful."
All three men released small breaths.
The doctor continued.
"He suffered a moderate head injury resulting in a concussion."
Mike nodded.
"And the bleeding?"
"There was significant blood loss."
The doctor's expression became serious.
"The metal fragment that entered his left side damaged soft tissue and caused internal bleeding."
Antonio visibly paled.
Barnabas lowered his gaze.
The doctor continued.
"He required emergency surgery and blood transfusion."
Mike's eyes narrowed slightly.
"How much blood?"
"Four units."
Silence followed.
Even Barnabas looked surprised.
Four units was a considerable amount.
The doctor nodded.
"Without immediate intervention his condition would have become critical very quickly."
Mike looked back toward the glass.
His jaw tightened.
The doctor continued.
"His pre-existing liver condition complicated matters."
"What does that mean?"
The question came immediately.
The doctor adjusted his glasses.
"Patients with chronic liver disease have increased risks involving bleeding, infection, healing, and clotting."
He paused.
"His liver function is already compromised. Any major trauma places additional stress on his body."
Mike felt his stomach sink.
The doctor continued.
"The surgical team stabilized him."
"We controlled the bleeding."
"We repaired the damaged tissue."
"The transfusion was successful."
"However..."
Nobody liked the word.
However.
"The next seventy-two hours remain extremely important."
Antonio finally found his voice.
"Is he going to survive?"
The doctor looked toward John.
Then back at them.
"Right now?"
"He is stable."
The answer brought slight relief.
Then the doctor added quietly.
"But stable is not the same as safe."
The corridor became silent.
The machines beyond the glass continued their rhythm.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Mike stared at his son.
His son.
The word felt strange.
Painful.
Precious.
All at once.
The doctor closed the file.
"He woke briefly."
All three men looked up immediately.
"What?"
The doctor nodded.
"A few minutes ago."
Mike stepped forward.
"He woke up?"
"Only briefly."
"He regained partial consciousness for less than a minute before falling asleep again."
Hope flickered inside Mike's chest.
Small.
Fragile.
But real.
The doctor softened slightly.
"That is actually a positive sign."
For the first time since arriving, Mike's shoulders relaxed.
Not completely.
Just enough to breathe.
The doctor excused himself.
Leaving them alone.
The corridor fell quiet.
Behind the glass John continued sleeping.
Unaware of everything.
Unaware that news of his accident had spread across the country.
Unaware that fans were praying.
Unaware that friends were crying.
Unaware that his father stood only a few feet away.
Mike slowly raised his hand and placed it against the glass.
His reflection merged with John's sleeping figure.
His eyes reddened.
Years of regret sat heavily inside his chest.
"You stubborn boy..."
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
Barnabas and Antonio heard it.
Neither interrupted.
For the first time in years, Mike looked less like a powerful man and more like a father terrified of losing a son he had only just begun to find.
And beyond the glass—
John slept on.
Suspended between pain and recovery.
While the people waiting outside prayed for another chance.