Chapter 4 - The Flatline and the Facade"Clear!"
The electric shock ripped through the room, sending a violent shudder through Leo’s tiny frame. The monitor let out a long, uninterrupted, soul-crushing tone. BEEEEEP.
A flatline. A straight, green line of absolute nothingness stretching across the screen.
"No! No, baby, look at me! Leo!" I screamed, lunging forward, but a pair of strong hands caught me around the waist, hauling me back away from the bed.
Nico pulled me hard against his chest, trapping my arms. I beat against his shoulders, screaming his name, but his grip was like an iron vise. He didn’t look panicked. Even as the medical team swarmed the bed, pushing epinephrine into an IV line and pressing rhythmic, brutal compressions into my son’s chest, Nico’s face was a mask of cold, calculating calm.
"Breathe, Claire," he commanded quietly in my ear. "He’s a fighter. He has my blood. He isn't going to die here."
"Push another milligram of adrenaline!" Dr. Vance yelled, her forehead slick with sweat as she leaned her full weight into the chest compressions. "Come on, kid. Come on, stay with us!"
One second. Two seconds. An eternity compressed into a sterile white room smelling of ozone and death.
Then, a faint, erratic blip on the monitor. Beep... beep... beep-beep.
"We have a sinus rhythm!" a nurse cried out, wiping her brow. "He’s back! Vitals are stabilizing, but they’re dangerously low. We have minutes, Dr. Vance. Just minutes before the next failure."
Dr. Vance turned around, her eyes sweeping past the nurses and landing squarely on Nico. She didn't look at me; she looked at the man who signed her grants.
"Mr. Hayes," Vance said, her voice tight. "The experimental marrow is our only bullet left. But it requires the patient to be conscious enough to process the cellular integration, and right now, his body is rejecting his own blood cells. Without a secondary donor match—someone with an exact genetic bridge—the marrow will trigger massive organ rejection within minutes of injection."
Nico didn't blink. "Use me."
"Nico, no," I choked out, breaking free from his grip and stumbling forward. "Your blood type is different—you know it is! They tested us years ago when—"
"Not my blood type, Claire," Nico interrupted, cutting me off with a sharp, chilling look that silenced the room. He turned to Dr. Vance. "My tissue typing. The second file. The one locked in my private vault in Geneva. My universal compatibility markers."
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Dr. Vance’s jaw dropped slightly. "You... you kept the somatic sequencing from the bio-trials? But that’s classified military-grade tech—"
"I am the board," Nico snapped. "Get the extraction kit. Now."
