The hallway outside her hospital room was quiet—
too quiet.
The kind of silence that pressed on the chest, heavy and suffocating.
The boy stood near the door, his back straight but his hands trembling,
eyes still swollen from crying.
He hadn't moved since she was taken inside.
Then the door at the end of the corridor swung open.
A tall man stepped in.
Broad shoulders.
Cold eyes.
A face carved with years of anger, authority, and dominance.
Her father.
Jack stiffened instantly—
like a child caught doing something unforgivable.
"Dad…"
The word escaped him weakly, trembling.
But his father didn't look at him for more than a second.
His gaze shifted—slowly, deliberately—
to the boy standing in front of his daughter's door.
The boy didn't look away.
Didn't bow his head.
Didn't run.
He stood there, pale, exhausted, bloody—
but unmoving.
Her father took a heavy step forward.
The floor seemed to echo with his presence.
He studied the boy from head to toe,
as if inspecting him,
measuring him,
searching for a fault.
The boy swallowed, but kept his eyes raised just enough to meet the man's stare.
It wasn't a challenge.
It wasn't confidence.
It was honesty.
Raw, trembling honesty.
After a long silence, her father spoke.
"You're the one…?"
His voice was quiet,
but it carried weight—
the kind of weight that silences whole rooms.
The boy nodded slowly.
"…Yes."
Another silence passed.
Her father's jaw tightened.
"My daughter was bleeding in your arms."
The boy lowered his gaze for a moment—
not out of shame,
but out of pain.
"…Because I tried to save her," he whispered.
Her father's eyes narrowed.
"And my son tried to kill her."
Jack flinched.
His whole body recoiled as if struck.
But the boy…
the boy stepped forward.
Just one step.
But it was enough to shake the entire corridor.
His voice cracked, but it was firm:
"Your son almost killed me too."
Jack gasped quietly behind him.
"Wait— no— I—"
But his father raised one hand, silencing him instantly.
The man's eyes returned to the boy.
Sharp.
Cold.
Calculating.
And yet… something else.
Something new.
Understanding.
"Still…" the father said slowly,
"you were the one who carried her.
The one who held her.
The one who cried over her."
The boy didn't speak.
He couldn't.
Because every word the father said
was breaking him all over again.
Her father exhaled—
a long, heavy breath.
Then, with a voice lower, heavier, and almost… human:
"You love my daughter."
The boy closed his eyes for a moment,
his voice barely a whisper when he answered:
"…Yes."
Her father stared at him in silence.
Then he stepped aside, just a little—
clearing the way to the door.
"You may see her," he said quietly.
"For now."
Jack's eyes widened.
His father had never yielded to anyone before.
But today…
he stepped aside for the boy who refused to run.
The boy took a shaky breath
and moved toward the door.
And for the first time in his life,
Jack watched his father look at someone else
with something close to respect.
The room was dim, the curtains drawn halfway,
letting in a soft wash of afternoon light.
She lay propped up by pillows,
pale but awake,
her breathing steadier now.
The door opened quietly.
Her father stepped inside.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
He stood near the doorway,
arms stiff at his sides,
as if he wasn't sure he had the right to take another step.
She looked at him—
really looked at him—
and something inside her tightened.
This was the man who taught her strength.
And silence.
And how to survive storms without crying.
But he never taught her how to forgive.
"…Dad," she whispered.
He closed his eyes briefly at the sound of her voice
before finally walking to the chair beside her bed.
He didn't sit.
He couldn't.
He looked down at her wound,
the bandages,
the IV line running into her arm.
His jaw clenched hard.
"Does it hurt?" he asked.
She gave a small, sad smile.
"A little."
Silence pressed between them again.
Then she said quietly:
"Jack told you… didn't he?"
Her father didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked at her—
not with authority,
not with anger,
but with something she had almost forgotten he could feel.
Worry.
"Yes," he finally breathed.
"He told me everything."
Her eyes softened.
"Everything?"
He nodded slowly.
"Everything."
She swallowed, shifting slightly against the pillow.
"And… what do you think of me now?"
Her father's brows knit sharply.
"What kind of question is that?"
"The kind you get after you almost destroy someone's life," she whispered bitterly.
Her father's expression wavered—
just a fraction—
but enough for her to see.
"Listen to me," he said, lowering his voice,
sitting on the edge of the chair at last.
"You made mistakes.
You followed your brother down a path you shouldn't have.
But you did not pull that trigger."
She looked away, ashamed.
"But I led him there," she whispered.
"I lied to him.
I hurt him.
I broke someone who didn't deserve it."
Her father inhaled deeply.
"You were trying to protect your brother."
Her voice cracked.
"And who was protecting me?"
The words stabbed the air like a blade.
He froze.
His daughter rarely raised her voice to him—
but this wasn't anger.
It was heartbreak.
"I've been protecting Jack my whole life," she whispered,
tears filling her eyes.
"Against the world.
Against himself.
Against you."
Her father's eyes widened.
"You think I—?"
She cut him off.
"You scared him every day of his life.
And me too."
The man stiffened—
as if struck by his own reflection.
She continued softly:
"I spent years cleaning up his messes.
Covering for him.
Fixing the damage he caused.
All because I thought…
if I didn't stay with him, he would break completely."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"But this time… I'm the one who almost broke."
Her father's face tightened with pain he didn't know how to express.
He leaned forward,
voice low,
unsteady:
"I never meant for either of you to be afraid of me."
"But we were," she whispered.
Her father swallowed hard.
"And now…?"
She hesitated before answering.
Now.
Now she was different.
Older.
More tired.
Less willing to bend.
"Now," she whispered,
"you don't scare me anymore.
But losing him does."
Her father stiffened.
"You care for that boy?"
She gave a small nod.
"He saved me.
Twice.
And he… sees me.
Not as Jack's sister.
Not as someone broken.
Just… me."
Her father looked at her for a long, heavy moment.
Then he stood.
"Rest," he said quietly.
"You'll need strength for what comes next."
She frowned.
"And what's that?"
He looked toward the door—
toward Jack still trembling outside,
toward the boy waiting for her,
toward the consequences of everything that happened.
"Facing the truth," he said simply.
He reached out and gently—awkwardly—placed a hand over hers.
Something he hadn't done in years.
"I'm glad you're alive," he whispered.
And for once…
she believed him.