The air smelled of polished wood, wilting flowers no one bothered to admire, and the sharp metallic trace of advanced medicine.
At the center of the room lay Jonathan Whitmore. At forty-two, the man who had built a powerful empire spanning tech and real estate—the ruthless negotiator feared by competitors—was now pale, still, and helpless. Around his bed stood ten of the country’s top specialists, murmuring in grave tones as they debated his fate.
In the corner, gripping a mop so tightly her knuckles ached, stood Maya Reynolds in her gray housekeeper’s uniform. She was meant to be invisible, wiping shelves for the third time that morning. But her attention was fixed on the discussion led by Dr. Lawrence Hale, the city’s most celebrated—and most arrogant—neurologist.
“There’s no response to the antivirals,” Hale said, adjusting his glasses. “The inflammation persists. We’ve exhausted standard treatment. I recommend moving forward with the experimental immunosuppressant cocktail. It’s risky, especially given his history, but there’s no alternative.”
Murmurs of agreement followed. They were surrendering. Worse, they were about to kill him with a reckless solution.