The ICU room remained silent, broken only by the soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.
When Jonathan Woodgate finally stirred, his eyelids fluttered open with visible effort. The harsh white lights above blurred, then slowly sharpened. Sitting beside the bed was Richard, unmoving, his elbows resting on his knees as if he had been there for hours.
Elsewhere in the hospital, Fevre and Schlumberger were still deep in consultation, voices low and tense. Marina had stepped out earlier, searching for something warm for Richard to eat—anything to keep him standing.
Jonathan's gaze drifted, unfocused at first, then settled on Richard's face.
For a brief second, recognition flickered in his eyes.
Then he spoke.
"Big Boss… did we win?"
