AUTHOR
The clock on the sterile white wall of the hospital waiting area read 5:15 PM. The evening light was starting to soften outside the large windows, but inside, the air was bright, cold, and humming with a quiet tension.
Barbara sat stiffly on a vinyl chair, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white. She looked like a statue of a wealthy socialite, her expensive clothes seeming out of place in the impersonal room.
But her eyes, usually so cold and composed, were red-rimmed and swimming with a storm of emotions—fear, shame, and a deep, weary regret.
Next to her, Denki was a slumped shadow of himself. He had cleaned up, but he couldn't wash away the exhaustion etched into his face or the haunted look in his eyes. He stared at the floor, lost in the memory of gunfire and blood.
When the elevator doors slid open and Paige and Reomen stepped out, both Barbara and Denki flinched as if startled. They stood up quickly, their movements jerky with nerves.
