Alessia sat by Xavier's hospital bed, her fingers resting gently on his. His skin was cold, almost lifeless, except for the occasional flicker of warmth. The rhythmic beeping of the machines felt like a cruel reminder of the ticking clock. Time was slipping away from her, from them both. She felt trapped in a bubble of silence, the sterile cold of the hospital room suffocating her.
She tried to focus on his face, on the man she knew beneath the armor of Kil, but the reality of his condition weighed heavy on her chest. Xavier's organs were failing—she hadn't known the extent of his illness, hadn't realized he was living on borrowed time. Now, with a gunshot wound, the situation had become dire. His body was shutting down, and the doctors had no idea how to save him.
