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My mind tries to anchor in the present and fails. My body locks.

I freeze.

My lungs forget how to work. My hands stay pinned above my head under Taylor’s grip, but I no longer fight. It feels pointless. Far away.

Somewhere, someone speaks. I don’t catch the words. My vision tunnels.

Taylor doesn’t notice the switch. He is too deep in his own storm, in his own need, his own desperation to not feel empty.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he grits out. “You thought I didn’t see you? I’ve thought of nothing else since. You and that club and those men–”

A shadow moves at the edge of my vision. Then it steps in.

A large hand appears between us, snatching Taylor’s collar and yanking him backward just enough to break contact. Taylor stumbles, releases my wrists on reflex. I drag a breath into my lungs and plaster myself against the wall, fingers tingling.

It’s.. it’s Alessio’s friend, Morti. He doesn’t shout. He just drives his fist straight into Taylor’s midsection.

The sound is dull, almost hidden under the background hallway noise. Taylor folds forward with a choked gasp, air punched from his lungs. Before he can straighten, Morti hits him again in the same spot. And again.

Three fast, efficient blows.

Taylor collapses to his knees, hands clutching his stomach, face twisted with shock and pain. He tries to inhale and fails. No air. His eyes bulge. No sound.

He jerks his head up toward Morti, pure panic now mingling with humiliation.

Morti looks down at him with flat calm. Then he cuts his gaze to me.

“Get rid of him,” he says, voice low and steady. “We need you in room 7V.”

The familiar hospital corridor returns around me. The fluorescent lights buzz again.

Taylor manages a breath, then another. Each inhale comes ragged. His eyes flick between me and Morti, shame rising to coat his expression. He realizes what he just did. What it looked like. How far he stepped.

“Georgina,” he croaks. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–I just–”

The apology skids over the floor and lands somewhere far away from where it needs to be.

I straighten from the wall and force my spine to align.

My voice comes out quieter than I expect, but it holds. “You shouldn’t be.”

I step around him, toward the phone on the wall near the nurses’ station. I pick up the receiver, press the code for security, and wait.

“Security,” a bored voice answers.

“This is Nurse Georgina Rosario on ward D3,” I say, slipping into a professional tone without effort. “There’s a visitor who is not fit to stay on the ward. Please escort him out.”

Taylor stares at me from his knees, horror flooding his face now, overshadowing everything else.

“Georgina,” he whispers.

He reaches a hand toward me, but he doesn’t stand. His abdomen still seizes with each breath.

I ignore the outstretched fingers.

“Yes,” I tell security. “He’s in the corridor, on the floor.”

I hang up and lower the handset carefully.