Chapter 6 - The Hospital Lockdown
Back at the county hospital, the digital clocks on the wall read 2:14 AM.
The neonatal ICU was quiet, bathed in the soft, amber glow of night-lights. The twins were resting comfortably, their vital signs stabilizing under continuous monitoring. Lily had finally fallen asleep in a makeshift bed of extra blankets brought by the nurses, her small hand still clutching a corner of Nathaniel Reyes’s—wait, no, let's keep the narrative voice consistent—clutching the corner of the fleece blanket provided by the staff.
I stood at the nurses' station, reviewing the midnight medication charts, when the automatic sliding doors at the end of the hallway parted.
Two men in dark trench coats and wet suits walked in. They didn't look like doctors, nor did they look like grieving relatives. Their posture was rigid, their eyes scanning the corridors with practiced, professional efficiency.
"Excuse me," I said, stepping out from behind the counter. "Visiting hours ended hours ago. You can't be back here."
The lead man—tall, with slicked-back gray hair and an expensive quartz watch glinting under the fluorescent lights—slowly turned toward me. He offered a polite, utterly chilling smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"I'm sorry, nurse," he said smoothly, his voice low and cultured. "We're representatives of the family estate. There’s been an administrative emergency regarding the children's guardianship papers, and we need to verify their identity immediately."
"I don't care who you represent," I replied, my instincts instantly flaring red. "No one enters the NICU without direct authorization from the attending physician and active child-welfare officers."
The man took a deliberate step closer, his hand sliding inside the pocket of his coat. "I assure you, nurse, this will go much smoother if you simply unlock the glass door to room four."
Behind him, the second man checked his watch, glancing anxiously down the hallway toward the elevators.
At that exact moment, the emergency paging system crackled to life.
“Security to the pediatric wing. Security to the pediatric wing. All units report code orange.”
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The smooth-talking man’s polite mask vanished in an instant. Without a word, he lunged past the counter, his hand whipping out of his coat—not with paperwork, but with a sleek, black, suppressed firearm.
"Don't move," he hissed.
