The hospital hallway fell into a strange kind of silence just before they arrived — like the air itself knew who was coming.
Tall. Quiet. Controlled.
Viper moved like a shadow given form — dressed in black, with eyes that cut through walls. Beside him, Kalen followed, fists clenched, jaw tight, but eyes wide with something closer to fear than fury.
They didn't belong here.
Not in places like this, where machines beeped and nurses moved gently and everything smelled like antiseptic and grief. But they came anyway.
Because days ago, Leon had walked into Viper's office with something heavier than words in his voice.
"I think I found her."
And now, here they were. Hoping. Dreading. Searching.
A nurse at the desk straightened when she saw them, faltering for a moment at Viper's presence. But it was Kalen who spoke first.
"Where is she?" His voice cracked slightly. "The girl from the accident."
"Room 308," the nurse replied, voice soft. "She hasn't woken up."
Viper gave a curt nod. Kalen didn't wait—he was already walking.
And when they reached the room…
There she was.
Still. Pale. Tubes in her arm, wires on her skin. The girl who was supposed to be gone forever. The girl who had vanished, leaving a hole behind in both of them. The girl who — somehow — might be lying right here, as fragile and as fierce as a dream they hadn't dared to dream again.
Kalen froze in the doorway, shoulders trembling.
"It's her," he said under his breath. "I swear, it's her, Dad."
But Viper said nothing.
He just stepped in slowly. Eyes on the girl — not flinching at the wires, the beeping, or the sadness hanging in the air. He didn't reach for her. Didn't say her name.
He just stood there.
And then, in a voice so low it nearly vanished into silence, he murmured,
"If that's my Ayla… I need her to wake up."
The hospital hallway fell into a strange kind of silence just before they arrived — like the air itself knew who was coming.
Tall. Quiet. Controlled.
Viper moved like a shadow given form — dressed in black, with eyes that cut through walls. Beside him, Kalen followed, fists clenched, jaw tight, but eyes wide with something closer to fear than fury.
They didn't belong here.
Not in places like this, where machines beeped and nurses moved gently and everything smelled like antiseptic and grief. But they came anyway.
Because days ago, Leon had walked into Viper's office with something heavier than words in his voice.
"I think I found her."
And now, here they were. Hoping. Dreading. Searching.
A nurse at the desk straightened when she saw them, faltering for a moment at Viper's presence. But it was Kalen who spoke first.
"Where is she?" His voice cracked slightly. "The girl from the accident."
"Room 304," the nurse replied, voice soft. "She hasn't woken up."
Viper gave a curt nod. Kalen didn't wait—he was already walking.
And when they reached the room…
There she was.
Still. Pale. Tubes in her arm, wires on her skin. The girl who was supposed to be gone forever. The girl who had vanished, leaving a hole behind in both of them. The girl who — somehow — might be lying right here, as fragile and as fierce as a dream they hadn't dared to dream again.
Kalen froze in the doorway, shoulders trembling.
"It's her," he said under his breath. "I swear, it's her, Dad."
But Viper said nothing.
He just stepped in slowly. Eyes on the girl — not flinching at the wires, the beeping, or the sadness hanging in the air. He didn't reach for her. Didn't say her name.
He just stood there.
And then, in a voice so low it nearly vanished into silence, he murmured,
"If that's my Ayla… I need her to wake up."