In Theatre, Hale was completely wrapped up in the bone marrow transplant procedure, the sterile room feeling like a sealed bubble of intense focus under those unforgiving white lights that cast sharp shadows on every surface.
The air was thick with the faint, clean smell of antiseptic wipes and the subtle metallic tang from the equipment, mixed with the soft, constant hum of the machines—the IV pump ticking away like a metronome, the heart monitor letting out its steady, reassuring beeps, and the ventilation system pushing cool, filtered air that made the back of Hale's neck prickle under his surgical cap. Everything was designed for precision, from the gleaming stainless-steel trays lined with instruments to the padded operating table where Mrs. Ellis lay, her body draped in blue sterile sheets that rustled faintly with each breath she took.
