At last, Alia could no longer restrain herself.
Overwhelmed by the tide of emotions that had been building within her, she threw herself into Marcellus's arms.
For a brief, fleeting instant, the air between them ceased to exist—
the sound of the monitor faded, the sterile scent of the ward dissolved—
there was only the rhythm of her heartbeat, desperate and uneven, thundering between them.
Marcellus's eyes softened, just slightly—so faintly it could have been imagined.
He had seen her strong, cold, unflinching in the face of pain, yet in that moment her movements carried a kind of fragile urgency.
When her fingertips brushed across his cheek, the warmth of her skin seared through him—
a warmth that spoke of fear, of longing, of every unsaid word she had buried beneath her calm.
It lasted no more than a breath, yet it felt like the world had paused for it.
Then, she slowly straightened, trying to steady her breathing, her lips trembling as she forced out the words:
"Wait for me. I know you'll be fine. This… this won't be the last time we see each other."
Her voice was soft—almost a dream whispered between two heartbeats—
but the certainty in it was unshakable, powerful enough to cut through the silence that followed.
The door clicked shut behind her, and the room fell still again.
The light above cast a pale, sterile glow—gentle, yet mercilessly cold.
Elias said nothing for a long time.
He stared at the door as if half-expecting Alia to walk back through it, her determined eyes meeting his once more.
Finally, he exhaled and turned toward Marcellus. His gaze was complicated—part admiration, part helplessness, and something like quiet sorrow.
"She really believes in you," he said softly.
"Maybe even more than you believe in yourself."
Marcellus leaned back against the bedframe, his expression calm, that familiar half-smile tugging faintly at his lips.
"She's always been too smart for her own good," he murmured, exhaustion lacing his tone. "Too stubborn, too fearless. But right now… belief is the only thing keeping any of us alive."
Elias gave a dry laugh, though there was no humor in it.
He walked to the window, struck a match, and lit a cigarette.
The brief flare of flame illuminated the deep lines between his brows, the marks of countless nights spent fighting fate itself.
"To be honest," he said after a pause, exhaling smoke into the dim light,
"I still can't tell if your so-called faith is courage… or just a gamble with your life."
Marcellus didn't answer immediately.
He raised his hand—still wrapped in bandages—and stared at the faint red seeping through the white cloth.
His expression grew distant, almost detached, as if he were watching someone else's wounds.
"Maybe they're the same thing," he said at last, voice barely above a whisper.
"Courage and gambling with one's life… there's never been much difference."
The smoke drifted lazily between them, curling in the dim light—
thick, uncertain, like the boundary between destiny and choice.
Elias finally crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and turned to face him again.
"Whatever it is," he said firmly, "I'll keep an eye on Jim. The moment he makes a move, I'll act."
Marcellus gave a slow nod. His gaze drifted once more toward the closed door.
His tone was steady, but beneath it ran a quiet, unyielding conviction:
"She'll come back."
Elias hesitated, then said only four words—
quiet, heavy, almost a prayer:
"Let's hope she does."
Outside, the wind swept through the open window, carrying in a trace of the night's chill.
The curtains stirred softly, casting shifting shadows across the two men—
one lost in thought, the other keeping silent vigil.
They both knew what those last words truly meant.
This won't be the last time we see each other—
It wasn't a promise.
It was a prayer whispered to fate, fragile as breath,
and yet somehow, it was enough to keep them both alive.