In the best hospital in all of New York, a man sat motionless in one of the reception chairs. His eyes were empty, staring at nothing, his face devoid of life. The remnants of dried tears clung to his skin, and his black top was soaked in what looked like blood—stiff in some places, damp in others. It clung to his frame like a second skin, reeking of iron and smoke. But he didn't move. Didn't react. He just sat there.
Around him, three others were caught in restless motion. Unlike him, they couldn't sit still. They paced back and forth, their breaths uneven, their clothes just as bloodstained. But where his expression was dead, theirs were filled with anguish. Their eyes flickered toward him now and then, but none dared to speak. They couldn't. Not yet.
Then came the scream.
A piercing wail tore through the pristine white hallways. Hospitals were no strangers to cries of agony, but this one—this one was different. He knew it. Felt it in his bones. This scream was meant for him.
