Julian Vance knelt beside the chrome safety rail of Bed 412.
The shift clock on the wall clicked with a quiet, metallic snap: 01:58 AM.
Through the open doorway, Elena Rostova stood watch in the hallway. Her hand rested on the grip of her radio, her eyes scanning the empty green tiles of Ward 4B.
Julian pulled a sterile gauze square from his pocket. With gentle care, he wiped away the warm droplets of condensation gathering inside Clara’s clear plastic oxygen mask.
“Her skin feels cool,” Julian murmured, his thumb resting lightly against her temple.
Elena glanced over her shoulder into the room. “The hypothermia protocol is maintaining her brain metabolism. At thirty-four degrees Celsius, neural oxygen demand drops forty percent.”
“It protects her cerebral cortex.”
“She has been fighting for six months,” Julian said softly.
