The hospital room was sterile, white, and far too clean to feel safe. It smelled of antiseptic and stale oxygen, nothing like the metallic stink of the compound. Sam Corvini lay propped up in the bed, his leg locked inside a massive white cast. Pain had left faint lines around his eyes, but it hadn't touched the rest of him. He was still Sam, smirking like the gunshot had been an inconvenience rather than a warning.
He flicked his fingers toward the monitor beside him."Honestly, Sathwik, watching Vikram read poetry would've finished me faster than that bullet."
Sathwik stood near the oxygen tank, unmoving. His black clothes cut into the brightness of the room. He hadn't dropped guard once since they arrived. His eyes stayed on the doorway, his body tuned to threats that didn't belong in a hospital. The place felt wrong to him. Too open. Too soft.
Vikram sat by the window. Large. Silent. The afternoon light washed over him in a dull yellow haze. A thick leather-bound book rested in his hands. He read without shifting, without fidgeting, like stillness was a skill he had trained. He carried the calm of someone who could erase an entire floor and return to the same sentence without hesitation. His presence wasn't comforting. It was decisive.
Sam reached for the fruit bowl and threw a red apple across the room.
Sathwik caught it without looking. His hand moved on instinct, clean and precise. His eyes never left the door.
Sam laughed, then winced as it caught in his chest."See? Reflexes. The kid's a natural."
Something eased in the room. Not much. Just enough. The tension that had defined who stood where and why loosened its grip. In that small, antiseptic space, with death still hanging close, the three of them shared a quiet understanding. One had gone down. One had pulled him back. One made sure it would never happen again.
No speeches followed. No talk of loyalty or debt. Just the recognition that surviving the same moment binds people whether they ask for it or not.
Sam pushed it a little further."You know, Sathwik, your friend has a real murder face. Doctors kept asking if he was cleared to remove my cast with a spoon."
He turned his head toward the window."Right, Vik?"
Vikram didn't look up. He didn't react at all. When he spoke, his voice was low and flat.
"No."
The word cut through the room.
It wasn't humorless. It wasn't angry. It was final. Vikram wasn't part of the joke. He existed outside it.
Sam's smirk slipped for a fraction of a second. What replaced it wasn't irritation. It was approval.
Sathwik lowered the apple slightly. He understood what had happened. This wasn't about charm or wit. He had passed a different test. Sam spoke the language of leadership, softened for people. Vikram spoke for the machine underneath.
And that quiet acknowledgment, coming from a man like Vikram, was worth almost dying for.