The hospital lights were dim, casting a sterile glow across the whitewashed walls of the intensive care unit. Machines beeped steadily in the background, tracking each faint breath, each flicker of life within the unconscious body that lay on the bed. Mike Richard.

He was still. Pale. And alive.

Cynthia hadn’t left his side since they brought him in.

The doctors had worked tirelessly, and by some miracle, the bullet lodged above his heart hadn’t pierced it. The surgery was long, tense, and silent. And when it ended, they told her he had a fighting chance—but he had slipped into a coma.

Days passed like hours, and hours stretched like...