Zoe walked with rigid steps, not looking to either side, as if the sound of heart monitors and ventilators were invisible needles piercing her mind. The nurse guiding her gave a small nod toward the room, but Zoe barely registered it. Her eyes were fixed on the glass panel, beyond which Arthur lay motionless.

There were too many tubes.

Too many machines.

Too much silence.

She stopped before going in. Watched him for several long seconds—seconds that felt eternal. Hours ago, he had been all speed, voice, and lies. Now he was only a body. A wounded, vulnerable body tethered to wires and blinking numbers. His chest rose and fell in a controlled rhythm, as if each breath required permission.

Zoe inhaled deeply—once, twice—as though rehearsing the act of not collapsing. She pushed the door open carefully, stepping into the metallic, sterile smell of the room. Her heels clicked softly on the polished resin floor, each step heavier than the last.

She stopped beside the bed, her eyes locked o