The antiseptic smell of the hospital corridor burned Hughie's nostrils as he paced back and forth, his shoes squeaking against the polished linoleum floor. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed incessantly, a grating counterpoint to the steady beep of medical equipment from nearby rooms. Time seemed to stretch and warp, each second an eternity as Hughie waited for news about his father's condition.
The events at Bryman Audio played on repeat in his mind – the masked robbers, the struggle, the deafening crack of the gunshot. Hughie's hands, now scrubbed clean, still felt sticky with his father's blood. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to shake the sensation.
A harried-looking nurse rushed past, and Hughie grabbed her arm, desperation etched on his face. "My father – Hugh Campbell – is there any news?"
The nurse's expression softened with sympathy. "The doctors are still working on him, sir. I'll let you know as soon as there's an update."
Hughie nodded numbly, releasing her arm. As she hurried away, he slumped against the wall, sliding down until he sat on the cold floor. He buried his face in his hands, willing himself not to break down. Not here, not now. His father needed him to be strong.
"Mr. Campbell?"
Hughie's head snapped up at the sound of his name. A doctor stood before him, his surgical scrubs spattered with blood – Hugh Sr.'s blood. Hughie scrambled to his feet, heart pounding.
"How is he? Is he going to be okay?"
The doctor's face was grave, and Hughie felt his stomach drop before the man even spoke. "Mr. Campbell, I'm very sorry. We did everything we could, but the bullet caused extensive internal damage. Your father... he didn't make it."
The words hit Hughie like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs. He staggered backward, his back hitting the wall as his legs threatened to give out. "No," he whispered, shaking his head in denial. "No, that can't be right. There must be some mistake."
The doctor reached out, placing a steadying hand on Hughie's shoulder. "I'm truly sorry for your loss. Would you like to see him?"
Hughie nodded mechanically, his mind reeling. This couldn't be happening. Not again. Not so soon after Robin. It had to be a nightmare, a cruel joke played by an uncaring universe.
But as the doctor led him into a small, dimly lit room, Hughie knew it was all too real. Hugh Campbell Sr. lay on a hospital bed, his skin waxy and pale under the harsh lights. The rise and fall of his chest, a rhythm Hughie had known all his life, was terrifyingly absent.
Hughie approached the bed on unsteady legs, collapsing into the chair beside it. He reached out with trembling hands, grasping his father's limp fingers. They were still warm, and for a moment, Hughie could almost pretend that his dad was just sleeping.
"Dad?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Dad, please. Please don't leave me."
But Hugh Sr. remained still and silent, his eyes closed as if in peaceful slumber. Hughie's composure finally shattered. He laid his head on his father's chest, where the steady thump of his heartbeat should have been, and wept.
Memories flooded Hughie's mind – his father teaching him to ride a bike, cheering at his school plays, comforting him after nightmares. Hugh Campbell Sr. had been more than just a father; he had been Hughie's rock, his constant in a world of chaos.
"I'm sorry," Hughie sobbed, his words muffled against his father's hospital gown. "I'm so sorry, Dad. I should have done something. I should have stopped them. I should have–"
But there was no response, no comforting hand on his back, no reassuring words. Just the oppressive silence of the room, broken only by Hughie's ragged breathing.
Time lost all meaning as Hughie sat there, clutching his father's hand. Nurses came and went, murmuring soft condolences that barely registered. At some point, someone draped a blanket over Hughie's shoulders, but he barely noticed.
As the first pale light of dawn crept through the hospital window, Hughie finally stirred. He sat up, wiping his red-rimmed eyes with the back of his hand. He looked down at his father's face, peaceful in death, and felt something harden inside him.
First Robin, now his dad. Both taken from him in senseless acts of violence. Both deaths that could have been prevented if only there had been real heroes – not the glossy, corporate-sponsored frauds that dominated the media, but genuine protectors of the innocent.
Hughie's grief crystalized into something else, something sharp and unyielding. Rage, yes, but also determination. A resolve that burned away the last vestiges of the meek, unassuming young man he had once been.
He leaned down, pressing a final kiss to his father's forehead. "I'll make this right, Dad," he whispered, his voice hoarse but steady. "I don't know how yet, but I swear to you, I'll find a way to make things better. To be the kind of man you always believed I could be."
As Hughie stood, squaring his shoulders against the weight of his loss, he felt as though he were leaving more than just his father behind in that sterile hospital room. The Hughie Campbell who had entered Bryman Audio yesterday – naive, trusting, content with his ordinary life – was gone.
In his place stood someone harder, angrier, driven by a purpose that was only beginning to take shape. As Hughie stepped out of the room, leaving his father's body behind, he made a silent vow. He would find a way to change things, to protect the innocent, to bring true justice to a world sorely lacking in it.
The sun rose over New York City, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold. But for Hughie Campbell, emerging from the hospital with red-rimmed eyes and a heart full of steel, it felt like the dawn of a new era. An era that would shake the very foundations of the world as he knew it.
Little did he know just how far-reaching the consequences of his newfound resolve would be, or the dark path that lay ahead. For now, as he stepped into the early morning light, Hughie was a man transformed – into what? That remains to be seen.