Page 28 of Rhythm and Rapture (Behind the Lens #5)
Rachyl's sneakers squeak softly against the floor as she navigates the maze of corridors in her scrubs. She doesn't need to check signs or ask for directions—her body knows this path.
We move down the main hallway of the unit, passing rooms where similar dramas play out behind partially open doors.
Through one, a mother sings softly in Spanish to a toddler hooked to an IV.
Another reveals a father pacing, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing wildly at no one.
From somewhere comes the mechanical wheeze of a ventilator, a sound that makes my skin crawl.
We pass room 4B, and I catch a glimpse of the nameplate—empty now, but something about it makes Rachyl's step falter for just a moment before she continues.
"She's in the suite at the end," Rachyl says quietly. "4C. They moved him there after..." She doesn't finish.
From somewhere down the hall, music drifts—soft and familiar.
It takes me a moment to place it: Grimoire's "When Stars Fall.
" The acoustic version. Someone must be playing it on a phone or tablet, and the gentle melody seems both out of place and perfectly fitting in this space where children fight battles they shouldn't have to.
Felix's jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. Ash hasn't touched his drumsticks since we entered the building—his hands hang empty at his sides, lost without their usual rhythm. I force myself to breathe normally, but the antiseptic air burns my throat.
We round the corner to the end of the hall where the suite is located—a larger room designed for longer stays, with actual windows and space for a parent to live alongside their sick child. The door is partially open.
I see her before she sees us.
The sight punches the air from my lungs.
Sabina is folded into a vinyl chair like she's trying to make herself small enough to disappear.
Her knees are drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, creating a protective shell.
One hand stretches out to rest on the bed rail, maintaining contact with the small form barely visible among the machines and wires.
She's wearing that Stanford Chemistry Department sweatshirt—the same one from that morning after the shoot when she made us breakfast and laughed at Ash's terrible chemistry jokes.
But now it hangs loose on her frame, wrinkled and stained with coffee rings and what might be tears.
There's a splash of something orange near the hem—juice, maybe, or medicine.
Her hair, usually so carefully styled even in casual moments, is pulled back in a haphazard bun that's coming undone.
Strands escape to hang limp around her face, some stuck to her cheek with dried tears.
The harsh fluorescent lights overhead turn her skin sallow, highlighting the sharp angles where soft curves used to be.
No mask to hide behind. No heels to give her height. No lab coat for armor. Just Sabina, stripped down to raw humanity.
The dark circles under her eyes are so pronounced they look like bruises, purple-black against skin gone pale from too many hours under hospital lights.
Her lips are chapped, bitten raw in places.
Her hands shake slightly where they rest—from exhaustion or fear or too much hospital coffee, I can't tell.
But it's her expression that guts me.
She's staring at the boy in the bed with a focus that blocks out everything else.
Love and terror war across her features in waves—one moment her face soft with affection as she watches his chest rise and fall, the next contorted with barely controlled panic when a monitor beeps or his breathing hitches.
It's the look of someone holding their entire world together with nothing but will and prayer.
The suite's windows let in afternoon light that does nothing to soften the clinical reality.
There's a small couch against one wall, blankets and pillows showing where she's been sleeping—when she sleeps at all.
Medical equipment crowds the space, but someone has tried to make it homey: dinosaur drawings taped to the walls, a string of paper stars hanging from the IV pole.
The boy—Kael—is so small he barely makes a bump under the thin hospital blanket.
Dark curls peek out from under a knit cap with dinosaur spikes along the top.
Tubes and wires create a web around him, connecting to machines that beep and hum with artificial life.
His face is turned toward Sabina, one small hand curled near his cheek, the other sporting an IV held down with enough tape to wrap a present.
"Mommy?"
The whisper is so quiet I almost miss it, but Sabina reacts like she's been shocked. She unfolds instantly, leaning forward, her hand moving from the rail to brush his forehead with infinite gentleness.
"I'm here, baby. I'm right here."
That voice. The same voice that explained molecular structures with professor-like authority, that gasped our names in the heat of discovery, that laughed at our terrible science puns—now it's something else entirely.
Soft and broken, hoarse from tears or talking or both.
A mother's voice, full of love so fierce it could move mountains and promises she's terrified she can't keep.
"Did the dinosaurs come back?" Kael's eyes flutter open briefly, unfocused and glassy with medication.
"Not yet, sweet boy. They're waiting for you to feel better first." She forces a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Mr. Chompers is right here though. He's been guarding you."
She adjusts a stuffed T-Rex tucked next to his pillow, and the tenderness in that small gesture breaks something in my chest.
That's when she sees us.
Her entire body goes rigid. The color—what little was left—drains from her face. Her eyes, already too large in her drawn features, go wide with something between shock and betrayal. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
For a moment, nobody moves. We stand frozen in the doorway—three men in designer jeans and leather jackets who clearly don't belong in this world of IV poles and dinosaur caps and parents who haven't slept in days.
Rachyl hovers behind us, her hand on the door frame like she's ready to pull us back if necessary.
The silence stretches, taut as piano wire, until finally Sabina finds her voice.
"What are you doing here?"