The message came without warning.
I found him.
Roman stared at the screen for a moment too long, his mind catching on the words before the rest of him could move. Then everything snapped back into motion at once — sharp, immediate, no space between thought and action.
His fingers moved fast.
Come to the hospital. Now.
He sent it and pocketed the phone without waiting for a reply.
He didn't sit. He didn't pace. He stood exactly where he was, outside the ICU doors, his eyes fixed on the narrow glass panel that separated him from Jay. Through it, machines surrounded the bed in quiet attendance — tubes, monitors, the soft, mechanical rhythm of something keeping a person alive by careful calculation. Jay's chest rose and fell in the measured way of someone who was no longer doing it on his own.
Roman didn't look away.
