The hospital was chaos incarnate.
Flashing red and blue lights bathed the entrance of New York Presbyterian in an eerie glow, casting long, jittering shadows across the marble driveway as media vans parked haphazardly along the curb. Cameras clicked like insects in a frenzy, microphones were shoved forward by greedy hands, and the muffled cries of reporters echoed behind the glass doors as the guards fought to maintain control.
Inside, the pristine white walls and sterile scent of antiseptic couldn't erase the tension in the air. Nurses rushed past with clipboards, doctors whispered in corners, and the occasional loudspeaker announcement only made hearts beat faster. At the far end of the hallway, Anastasia sat with her arms folded tightly around herself, her eyes fixed on the emergency ward door that hadn't opened since her mother and grandfather were wheeled in.
Her heart was pounding so loudly she could barely hear herself think.
And then she saw them.
