Keene

  The machine hums like it’s thinking.

  Not loud.

  Not quiet.

  Just… present.

  A constant undercurrent in the room, steady enough that it stops registering as sound and becomes something closer to pressure. Like the building itself is leaning in, listening.

  Keene sits on the edge of the bed, feet dangling above the floor, hands braced against the thin mattress. The metal frame creaks faintly under his weight. He doesn’t shift. He doesn’t want to remind the room that he’s here.

  Across from him, Mira rests against a stack of pillows, small shoulders swallowed by white sheets. Tubes snake from the machine into her arm, disappearing beneath translucent skin. She doesn’t look at them anymore. She hasn’t for days. It’s like they’re part of her now—same as fingers, same as breath.

  Same as staying.

  Mira is drawing.

  A thin sheet of recycled paper rests on her knees, held down by a bent clip so it doesn’t flutter when the vents cycle. The pencil moves slowly, carefully. No rush. No hesitation. Each line is deliberate, as if she’s rationing motion the same way her body rations strength.

  Keene leans forward, elbows on his knees.

  “What’re you making?”

  She doesn’t look up.

  “An angel.”

  He watches the lines take shape.

  Wings first.

  Big ones. Too big for the body they’re attached to. Each feather is drawn individually, layered, imperfect. The figure beneath them is simple—no armor, no weapon, no sharp edges. Just a person, standing straight, wings open like they’re not meant to attack anything.

  Keene tilts his head.

  “Who’s that?”

  Mira pauses.

  Just for a second.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The pencil hovers above the paper, then lowers again.

  “My father,” she says softly.

  Keene blinks.

  “Your… father?”

  She nods, adding feathers one by one.

  “He had wings?” Keene asks, immediately regretting how it sounds.

  Mira smiles.

  Not big.

  Not sad.

  Just sure.

  “No,” she says. “But he watched over people. That’s almost the same.”

  Keene shifts on the bed. His eyes flick to the machine—numbers scrolling, lines pulsing, proof of life reduced to patterns.

  “What’s his name?” he asks.

  Mira hums, thinking. Then shakes her head.

  “I don’t remember.”

  Keene nods.

  He doesn’t push.

  “Mira,” he says instead.

  She looks up.

  “Yes?”

  “Who’s Mira?”

  She stares at him.

  Then grins.

  “Me.”

  Keene laughs—short, surprised.

  “Oh.”

  She goes back to drawing like she won something.

  Angels shouldn’t need machines to stay alive.

  He doesn’t say it.

  He just stays.

  ---

  Razan

  “This is illegal.”

  Razan squints at the clipboard like it personally offended him.

  The nurse doesn’t even look up.

  “It’s paperwork.”

  “You’re smiling,” he says.

  “I always smile.”

  Her badge reads:

  Nurse Elva Moore

  Razan points at a paragraph.

  “What does ‘restricted physical exertion’ mean?”

  Elva finally looks at him.

  “It means you don’t punch walls.”

  “I don’t punch walls.”

  She waits.

  “…Much,” he adds.

  She checks a box.

  “Progress.”

  Razan flips the page.

  “And this one?”

  “Vein usage limitation.”

  “I hate that sentence.”

  “Everyone does.”

  He leans back with a groan.

  “You know I almost died, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re still doing this.”

  She taps the clipboard lightly against his chest.

  “And you’re still breathing.”

  Razan smirks.

  “You flirt like a government interrogator.”

  She smirks back.

  “You bleed like an amateur.”

  He signs—sloppy, fast.

  Then pauses.

  Monitoring Authorization

  He looks up.

  “What’s this?”

  “Hospital policy.”

  “Monitoring what?”

  She leans closer, voice lower.

  “Everything that tries to kill you.”

  Razan exhales.

  “…Fair.”

  She turns to leave.

  “Try not to escape today, hero.”

  “No promises.”

  She laughs.

  It’s light.

  Which somehow makes it worse.

  ---

  Rose

  Lazar arrives late.

  Which means Rose knows it’s deliberate.

  She hears his footsteps before she turns—unhurried, controlled, exactly the wrong pace for someone who understands urgency.

  “Where did you go?” Rose asks.

  Lazar stops beside her.

  “I had to fulfill a promise.”

  Rose’s eyes narrow.

  “You disappeared during active repositioning.”

  Lazar reaches into his coat.

  Pulls out a lollipop.

  Cherry. Cheap. Wrapped in crinkled plastic.

  He holds it up without explanation.

  Rose stares.

  “…So,” she says carefully, “you decided this was worth delaying the entire squad.”

  “Yes.”

  “For candy.”

  “For a promise,” Lazar says.

  Ilan scoffs.

  “This is how command structures collapse.”

  Noel tilts his head, studying the lollipop.

  “Symbolic object,” he murmurs. “Emotional anchor.”

  Mavrek adds, dry, “Still inefficient.”

  Rose exhales through her nose.

  “You reached everybody’s life for a lollipop.”

  Lazar pockets it calmly.

  “Take it easy, Rose. I’m still in charge of this squad.”

  She looks at him for a long moment.

  Then:

  “You’re impossible.”

  “And yet,” Lazar replies, “necessary.”

  Rose turns back toward the hospital.

  That’s when the humor drains out of the air.

  Too clean.

  Too calm.

  Her gaze drifts upward.

  Middle floors.

  One window glows brighter than the rest.

  Inside—shapes.

  A child.

  Machines.

  And someone older, sitting close. Still. Protective.

  Rose’s fingers tighten slightly.

  No Vein flare.

  No obvious threat.

  Just stillness.

  Deliberate.

  Observing.

  “Pack up,” Rose says. “We move soon.”

  “Where?” Ilan asks.

  Rose doesn’t look away from the window.

  “Toward the hospital.”

  No one argues.

  The city keeps breathing.

  And somewhere beneath it, something ancient remembers what angels were made for.

  .