Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Ward BSebastian stared down at the infant’s tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm. For a long moment, the man who controlled half the shipping ports and financial districts in the region looked entirely fragile.
"Seventeen years ago," Sebastian began, his voice barely above a whisper, "I wasn't who I am today. I was nobody. Just a kid from the docks trying to keep my head above water, working night shifts for men who didn't care if I lived or died."
He shifted slightly, adjusting his hold on Baby Boy Miller with a practiced, gentle care that betrayed years of hidden pain.
"My girlfriend back then—Elena—she was younger than me. Scared, alone, and trapped in a world we didn't know how to escape. She went into premature labor during a winter storm. No insurance. No money for a real hospital. I had to smuggle her into a charity ward downtown—Ward B of St. Jude's."
My breath hitched. St. Jude’s Ward B had burned down under mysterious circumstances nearly two decades ago. The city archives listed the casualties as a tragic accident.
"She gave birth to a boy," Sebastian continued, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. "Four pounds. Just like him. He couldn't breathe on his own. They put him in an incubator, hooked him up to tubes that looked like spiderwebs. For three days, I sat in a chair just like this one. I held his hand. I promised him we were going to make it out. I promised him I’d build an empire so big nobody could ever hurt us again."
He stopped. The air in the room grew suddenly cold.
"What happened, Sebastian?" I asked softly, dreading the answer.
"The hospital administration got bought out by the men my boss worked for," he said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. "They wanted the land for a commercial development. They turned off the backup generators during the storm. They said it was a mechanical failure. A tragic electrical fire."
His eyes met mine, and for a second, I felt the sheer, unadulterated terror of a man looking straight into the abyss of his worst nightmare.
"They burned the records, Nurse Evans. They burned the ward. And when I tried to pull my son out of that incubator, a security guard cracked my skull with a baton, threw me out into the snow, and left the building to burn. By the time I broke back in, there was nothing left. Not a trace."
The coffee cup slipped from my fingers, shattering softly against the linoleum floor, splashing dark liquid across my shoes.
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"Oh, God," I whispered. "Your son..."
"They told the city no infants were lost," Sebastian whispered, a tear finally breaking free, cutting a clean path through the stubble on his cheek. "They covered it up. But I never forgot the serial number on his incubator. And I never forgot the bracelet they put on his tiny wrist."
