The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the air in the quiet corridor of the hospital's private ward. The fluorescent lights above flickered slightly, casting long shadows across the pale tiles. Claire's mother, Margaret Browson, paced back and forth like a caged animal, her heels clicking sharply against the linoleum floor. Her nerves were frayed, her composure shattered. With every passing second, her anxiety grew thicker, more volatile. Her hands trembled—not with fear, but with fury. Her husband, Daniel Browson, was lying unconscious in one of the rooms, surrounded by beeping machines and tubes. But that wasn't what enraged her the most.
No.
It was her presence—Chantel.
