The hospital room felt like it was shrinking. The steady beep-beep of the heart monitor, once a comfort, now sounded like a countdown. I looked at the television screen, where a grainy medical document was being analyzed by a forensic expert.
It wasn't a heart transplant log. It was a neural mapping sequence.
"Adrian," I whispered, my hand clutching his arm so hard my nails bit into his skin. "What is that? Why is my name on a brain scan from ten years ago?"
Adrian didn't answer. He was staring at Julian, who remained standing in the shadows by the door. Julian’s face was a mask of professional indifference, but his eyes—those calm, surgical eyes—were filled with a terrifying, cold pride.
"The heart was the priority, Adrian," Julian said, his voice as smooth as a scalpel. "Your father
