Dylan carried Lena in his arms as if she were made of glass.
Her body felt too light. Too still.
Every step toward the bedroom felt wrong, as if the world itself had tilted out of place. The quiet halls of the house swallowed the sound of his hurried footsteps. Normally the house was warm—filled with the low humming chatter of QN robots and the soft rhythm of daily life.
Tonight it felt like a tomb.
He pushed the bedroom door open with his shoulder and carefully laid Lena on the bed.
For a second, his hands hovered above her, afraid to let go.
She didn't move.
Her breathing was shallow, fragile.
A cold weight dropped into Dylan's chest.
He forced himself to move.
The medical kit.
It was in the study.
Without another thought, he ran.
