The sterile smell of antiseptic filled the air as Mr. Qin stood in the hospital corridor, his hand pressed against his temples in an attempt to steady himself.
The nurse's reassuring words still lingered in his mind—*"Don't worry, Mr. Qin, your wife is a strong one.
She will be fine."* But despite her sweet smile and soothing tone, the fire of anger within him burned brighter than any relief he could muster.
His jaw clenched tightly as he gathered his thoughts, the distant hum of hospital equipment doing little to calm him.
The door to Stacy's room stood before him, a barrier between him and the confrontation he knew he couldn't avoid. Without a second thought, he pushed the door open, stepping inside with a quiet resolve.
Stacy was seated upright on the hospital bed, her pale face framed by a halo of disheveled hair. Bandages adorned her forehead, and her arm rested in a sling, while the faint purple of bruises darkened her cheek and jawline.
