The antiseptic smell of the hospital clung thickly in the air, sterile and uninviting. Anastasia walked down the dimly lit corridor, her heels tapping softly against the polished tiles, each step echoing in her chest like a countdown. The air felt heavier with each passing second, pressing down on her shoulders. At the end of the hallway, a nurse gestured politely toward a door with a soft, sympathetic smile. Anastasia returned a nod and pushed open the door.
Inside, the beeping of the heart monitor was the only thing punctuating the stillness. The room was bathed in a sterile blue hue from the machines, casting a cold glow over everything. Her mother, Genevieve Laurent, lay motionless in the hospital bed. Her skin was pale, bruises painted across her arms and collarbone, and a tube was connected to her nose, the soft rise and fall of her chest the only proof that she was still fighting.
Anastasia froze.
