The corridor lights hummed faintly, like a swarm of unseen insects. Viraj paced its length, one hand worrying at the seam of his jacket, the other curling uselessly into a fist. They had just rushed Yahvi into the operating theatre—two orderlies moving with an efficiency that made it feel rehearsed, vanishing with her into the sterile brightness beyond swinging doors. The sharp, clean smell of antiseptic clung to his clothes like something he didn’t want to remember.

Shalie was in a small side room just off the corridor, not far from the OT. The adrenaline that had kept her upright after the attack had drained out of her completely, she lay half-reclined on a narrow hospital cot, a drip feeding into her arm, her face pale under the thin blanket a nurse had tucked around her before leaving. The curtain had been left half-drawn, letting Viraj see the slow rise and fall of her chest. At least she was breathing.