Samay had just managed to bring a critical patient to the hospital, battling Delhi’s merciless traffic with the kind of urgency only death could summon. His veins were still humming with adrenaline, but his body had reached its limit. He was exhausted—mentally, physically, and emotionally.

Slipping away from the chaos, he walked into the washroom, hoping the cold water would revive him. He cupped it in his hands and splashed it on his face, his breath slowing as droplets traced down his skin. For a brief moment, the silence became a comfort—until a sound—a whisper of movement, a breath that wasn’t his—snapped him out of the calm.