Their bodies took a sharp cut at the corner, a last second, desperate pivot that sent the wheelchair tilting dangerously to one side. Silas gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached, his hands locked onto the handles as he fought to keep Patrick from tipping over entirely. Beside him, Salvar threw his weight against the opposite wheel, stabilizing it with a grunt that was half determination and half pure, unfiltered panic. The IV stand rattled beside them like a third participant in the chaos, its wheels squealing in protest at the sudden change of direction.
The turn saved them from the wall. It did not save them from what was waiting on the other side.
As their eyes lifted from the immediate crisis and focused on the corridor ahead, they saw a man, standing in the middle of the hallway with his arms crossed and a smirk plastered across his face like he had been waiting for them to take this exact turn.
But the man could go and marry himself, because he was not the problem.
