The silence that enveloped the lavish VIP ward after Devon's quiet, pointing gesture was profound, almost reverent, as though the very air itself had paused to listen.
Every person in the room—family, doctors, Claudia. felt compelled, against the storm of their own emotions, to follow the direction of Devon's extended hand.
There, in the center of the opulent bed, lay Harlan Schweitzer. His eyes were gently closed now, lashes resting against cheeks that had regained a natural, healthy flush.
The angry red imprint of Devon's palm stood out boldly on his skin like a brand, a stark reminder of the audacious act that had just unfolded.
Yet everything else about him spoke of calm restoration. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate cycles—deep, unlabored breaths that filled his lungs fully and released without effort.
The frantic, choking desperation of moments ago had vanished entirely. On the discreetly embedded monitors, the numbers told the same triumphant story.
