She knew the hallways well—where the kind nurses worked, which machines were broken, and which rooms were forbidden.
Room 701 was one of them.
But she had seen the man inside many times through the glass. Tubes. Stillness. Silence.
To her, it didn’t look like sleep.
It looked like being trapped.
That afternoon, after a heavy storm, Amina came in drenched—mud on her hands, her clothes, even her face. Security was distracted.
The door to 701 was slightly open.
She slipped inside.
The billionaire lay exactly the same. Pale. Motionless. Untouched by time.
Amina stood there for a while, staring.
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