The hospital was cold.
White walls. Fluorescent lights. The sterile smell of antiseptic and fear. Hades sat in a plastic chair beside Ken's bed, his hands clasped together, his eyes fixed on Ken's pale face.
Ken was unconscious. His breathing was shallow. His skin was the color of ash.
He was fine, Hades thought. He was fine, and then he wasn't. And I don't know why.
The doctors had rushed in the moment Ken collapsed. Hades had been pushed aside, forced to watch as they hooked Ken up to machines, as they ran tests, as they whispered to each other in voices he couldn't hear.
He hated it. He hated feeling helpless. He hated not knowing what was wrong.
I'm Death, he thought bitterly. I should know. I should be able to fix this.
But he couldn't. Not like this. Not when it was Ken.
The door opened.
A doctor walked in—an older man with gray hair and kind eyes. He carried a clipboard in his hands. His expression was grave.
