The hospital corridor thrummed with tension—a low, electric murmur of beeping machines, scuffed linoleum, and voices too hushed to trust. Rafael Vexley moved like a shadow through it all, his custom wheelchair gliding with effortless grace, the quiet spin of the wheels sounding more like a warning than a whisper.
Next to him walked Eliana Bennett, dragging he beat up box behind her like a tired soldier hauling memories. Her right arm was bound in a sling, a stark white bandage slicing across the warmth of her skin like a scar that hadn't learned how to hide. She wore a navy-blue sweater—plain—and faded jeans that clung to her like old regrets. The gown was gone, the hospital smell almost scrubbed off. Her curls tumbled around her face in soft, unruly waves, defiant and unapologetic. Her honey-brown eyes flicked around like she expected judgment at every turn—because it was already waiting.
And the corridor delivered.
