Victor's POV
Victor took the stairs two at a time, Silver half a step ahead of him, and every year of discipline he'd built into himself — the interrogation training, the years of learning to slow his own heartbeat under duress, the particular cold clarity he'd relied on to survive a syndicate that had wanted him dead before Silver ever pulled him out of that room — none of it was doing a single thing to steady him right now.
Won't wake up.
Two words, and his whole body had gone somewhere past fear into something colder and more absolute, a kind of stillness he only vaguely recognized from the worst nights of his life.
"Which room, sir," he said, voice rougher than he wanted it to sound.
"End of the hall." Silver didn't slow down, didn't look back, his own weapon still raised, eyes still sweeping every doorway they passed with the same relentless vigilance he'd apparently been running on since he woke. "She's breathing. Pulse is strong. She's just—"
