Ayan burst through the hospital exit, the cold light of day hitting him like a slap. His eyes burned with an intensity that wasn't grief anymore—it was something darker, sharper, coiled tightly beneath the surface. His fists clenched around the small suitcase, his knuckles white, and his breath came in shallow bursts.
Cricket stood nearby, leaning against the wall, casually puffing on a cigarette. The smoke swirled around his head, the scene at odds with the storm brewing inside Ayan. Cricket noticed him, exhaling slowly, his expression unreadable. He flicked the cigarette, letting it fall to the ground, eyes tracking Ayan's every move.
"You alright, mate?" Cricket asked, though his tone carried more curiosity than concern.
