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Anya

I wake up in a hospital bed, the sterile white walls and the beeping of machines offering a stark contrast to the chaos of the rooftop. My mind struggles to process the events, the memory of the confrontation between Bastien and my father vivid and haunting.

A dull ache radiates from my side, a reminder of the bullet wound. I try to sit up, but a sharp pain forces me back down. My eyes scan the room, searching for any sign of Bastien or my father, but I’m alone.

The door opens, and a nurse walks in, her face a mask of professional concern. She checks the monitors and adjusts my IV, offering a reassuring smile. “You’re lucky to be alive,” she says gently. “The bullet missed your vital organs.”

“Lucky,” I echo, the word sounding hollow. I think about Bastien and my father, wondering what happened after I lost consciousness.

“Someone’s been waiting to see you,” she adds, glancing towards the door.

My heart skips a beat, a mix of hope and dread swirling within me. Is it Bastien? Or i