By midday, the hospital was no longer quiet.
Word had spread fast—Eleanor Davis was stabilizing. The woman who'd been fed through machines, who'd clung to life by threads thinner than breath, was breathing on her own. Her vitals had normalized. Her color had returned. Her unborn child—still active, still consuming—was no longer killing her.
The doctors whispered.
The doctor remembered the clear vial Ethan had brought in. The one he injected with his own hand. He didn't know what was in it. Ethan hadn't told him. Hadn't documented it. No label. No formula logged in the hospital system. Just a name written on a clipboard:
Prototype 1.0
And it was working.
Ethan and Rei remained by Eleanor's side for most of the morning, silent and still, Ethan's hand in hers. She wasn't fully awake—just drifting somewhere between the surface and the dark. But he stayed. He watched every flicker of muscle, every shift in her breathing. And when her fingers gently curled around his, he let himself breathe again.
But outside the room, curiosity turned into concern.
By early afternoon, they came.
It started with a knock on his lab door.
Ethan was in the middle of mixing another micro-batch of the prototype—carefully measuring, isolating the reaction with fluorescent tracers.
He didn't look up. "Come in."
The door opened slowly. A woman stepped inside—calm, polished, clinical. Her name badge gleamed: Dr. Lianne Mercer, Hospital Ethics Oversight. Two men followed behind her. They didn't wear scrubs.
"Mr. Davis," Dr. Mercer said, her tone professional. "We'd like a word."
Ethan straightened, brushing the back of his wrist across his forehead. "You're here about the treatment?"
"We're here about the miracle," one of the men replied.
The third shut the door behind them.
Dr. Mercer continued, "Whatever you administered—Eleanor's response is unprecedented. We've never seen a patient in that condition return to baseline this quickly.
"Ethan said nothing. He returned to his workbench, carefully sealing a small vial before placing it in the cooler.
One of the suited men opened a sleek black tablet and swiped to a prepared document. "We're with the pharmaceutical and research advisory board. We've reviewed the vitals, the progression. The hospital's system shows an undocumented intervention. No charted chemical. No manufacturer. No entry."
"That's correct," Ethan said.
"We'd like to see the formula," Dr. Mercer added.
Ethan turned, wiping his hands on a towel. "There is no formula logged because it doesn't belong to the hospital. Or your board. Or your tablet."
The second man stepped forward. "This could be bigger than you realize. You're sitting on a potential billion-dollar breakthrough."
Ethan's gaze didn't change. "Then let it sit."
A tense silence filled the room.
Dr. Mercer pressed gently. "We're not here to exploit you. We're here because if what you've made is safe, we need to study it. Reproduce it. Apply it to others."
"You can't," Ethan said flatly.
The men exchanged looks. "Why not?" the first asked.
"Because you don't have the formula, You don't have the process. You don't know the sequencing conditions, the base structure, the enzyme stabilizers, or the binding agents. You don't even know which catalyst I used."
Dr. Mercer stepped forward. "Then share it with us."
Ethan smiled—cold, tired. "No."
The man with the tablet leaned in. "Then I'll be blunt, Mr. Davis. The hospital's system is flagging this as an unauthorized, undocumented medical intervention. If you don't release the compound's makeup, you may be facing legal complications—"
Ethan's voice cut through like a blade. "Let me make this clear. You can arrest me. Sue me. Throw me off hospital grounds. But you will not touch my wife. You will not replicate a compound you don't understand or own. And you will not weaponize a formula designed to save one woman and a baby." his voice cracked—not with weakness, but fury held back for too long.
"She's not a test subject," he continued. "She's my reason. And the formula—isn't yours."
The room went still.
Dr. Mercer didn't speak. She simply stared, something unreadable in her expression. Then she nodded once, and the others followed her out.
Ethan stood in silence for a long moment after they left. Only the hum of the centrifuge filled the lab. He pressed his palms against the table and lowered his head, breathing hard.
He knew they'd be back.
Later That Evening
Rei sat in the corner of the lab, hugging his knees. He hadn't said much. He didn't have to. He had felt it in the air—tension coiled like wire.
Ethan sat at the bench, hands still, eyes locked on the half-filled vial glowing softly in the lamplight.
"…Are they going to take it?" Rei asked after a while.
Ethan didn't look at him. "They can try."
"Will they take it away forcefully if they had the chance?"
Ethan finally turned to look at his son. "Yes."
Rei nodded. "Then we don't give them a chance."
Rei stood and walked over, placing a new drawing beside the equipment. Four figures again—Father, Mother, Rei… and a tiny one cradled in Eleanor's arms.
That made Ethan smile—just a little. He reached out and ruffled Rei's hair.
"You think the baby will be okay?" Rei asked.
Ethan looked at the drawing again, his throat tightening. "I think… for the first time, we have a chance."
And that was the hardest part of hope. It meant you had something to lose again.