"Francis… Francis!"
Naomi's voice shattered in the corridor, raw and unstable, collapsing into a wail that echoed through the sterile walls like a wounded she-wolf losing her Alpha. She dropped to the ground without grace, sobbing as Erica knelt beside her, pulling her into an embrace that looked more like performance than comfort.
Erica's shoulders shook too—but I caught it. The timing. The control. The absence of true fracture beneath the grief.
Alex stood nearby wearing a solemn mask, the perfect third witness to tragedy.
And then there was Anastasia.
Pale under the cold hospital light, trembling but still standing.
Elliot stayed just behind her, his presence anchored like a dominant Alpha shielding his chosen mate from the pressure of collapsing emotional territory. He guided her carefully toward the bench, as if her body itself needed protection from the weight of the moment.
For a brief second, the corridor was still.
Too still.
Then Naomi moved.
Fast.
Predatory.
