Elena Vasquez

The hospital’s waiting room was a purgatory of beige walls and fluorescent hum, the kind of place where time stretched like taffy, sticky and endless. I sat on a plastic chair that creaked under my weight, my tactical gear traded for a borrowed hoodie from Marco: too big, smelling of his teenage sweat and cheap cologne. Alexander paced the linoleum, his phone glued to his ear, barking orders to his security team in clipped tones that barely masked the storm in his eyes. Marco ...