So he stayed near the pillar, unnoticed, borrowing warmth that didn’t care who he was.
From there, he watched people come and go—expensive clothes, confident steps, lives untouched by his reality. No one ever looked at him. No one ever saw him.
Then Jonathan had arrived, stepping out of a sleek black car, holding his baby with a kind of careful strength.
Mason noticed that.
The way he held the child—not fragile, but priceless.
For a second, something flickered inside him. A memory. Of being held. Of mattering.
He shut it down.
Memories like that only made things harder.
Inside, Jonathan crossed the lobby, barely aware of the luxury around him. His entire world was in his arms. Ethan had been born early, had fought for life in a neonatal unit Jonathan himself had funded. Against all odds, he had survived.
And now—without warning—he was slipping away.
Doctors rushed in. Nurses surrounded the baby. Equipment appeared. Voices filled the air.
But no one acted.
They spoke. They hesitated. They followed procedure.
And Ethan kept turning blue.
“Why aren’t you helping him?!” Jonathan shouted, panic breaking through his voice.