Ethan knew that hospitals never slept. They simply shifted tone. Night enveloped the building, but inside everything remained too bright, too clean, and too carefully controlled, the silence broken only by the soft rhythm of monitors, the muted hurry of footsteps, and the occasional distant voice as staff dealt with emergencies that refused to respect the hour.
Ethan sat in one of the plastic chairs outside the emergency ward, hands loosely folded, the memory of red water and cold skin lingering with uncomfortable clarity even though he had scrubbed his arms until they were raw. People had come and gone around him. Someone had handed him a cup of water, someone else had thanked him for what he had done, and he had replied automatically, his voice functional while his mind stayed fixed somewhere between the hotel bathroom and the present moment.
He stood the moment a physician approached.
"Mr. Miller?" the doctor asked gently.
"Yes."
