The private hospital was too quiet for a building full of people trying not to die. The ICU corridor smelled like antiseptic and old carpet. Fluorescent lights hummed at a frequency designed to make everyone feel slightly ill. Plastic chairs lined the wall — the kind that cost nothing and gave back exactly that. A coffee machine in the corner dispensed something brown that nobody pretended was coffee. Claire Whitmore had been sitting in chair seven for eleven hours. Her coat was still on. She hadn’t noticed. Her brother Thomas was behind the sealed doors at the end of the hall. Cardiac arrest at fifty-one. The doctors used words like ‘stable’ the way people use umbrellas — hopefully, while knowing it might not help. She was staring at the floor when the elevator opened. Then— The man who stepped out did not belong here. Worn leather jacket. Road dust on…
