Chapter 2 - The Stolen Breath

"Fetal heart rate dropping! 90... 80... get her into OR Three!"
The ceiling lights flashed past Clara in dizzying succession. She tried to cling to consciousness, her fingers sinking into the rough cotton sheet beneath her. The cold numbness of the operating room enveloped her skin. Metallic clinks of scalpels and urgent medical jargon filled the air like a storm.
"She’s hemorrhaging," an anesthesiologist announced, adjusting an oxygen mask over Clara’s face. "BP is crashing. We need to deliver now."
"No... wait..." Clara struggled against the rubber mask, her vision swimming with silver stars. "Don't let them take... my baby."
"Breathe, Clara. Deep breaths."
The sedative plunged through her veins like ice water. The shouting faded into a muffled thrum beneath ocean waves. Yet, amidst the encroaching dark, Clara remained anchored by an instinct older than time itself: the rhythm inside her womb.
A sharp pressure. A dull tug. Then, a strange silence settled over the room.
No cry. No wailing.
"Come on, little one," a distant voice muttered. "Clear the airway. Bag him!"
Clara forced her heavy eyelids open by sheer willpower. Across the bright room, a pediatrician worked frantically under the warming lamps. Seconds felt like centuries. Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs until, suddenly, a weak, sputtering cough broke the silence, followed by a fragile, newborn wail.
Tears spilled freely over Clara’s temples. "My son..." she mouthed, helpless against the paralysis taking hold.
A masked nurse wrapped the infant in blue fleece and turned toward the door instead of Clara’s bedside. Before the physician could protest, the operating room door slid open. A tall man in a tailored charcoal coat stepped through the threshold, ignoring sterilization protocols.
Arthur Vance.
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His eyes were cold, unreadable slate. He glanced down at Clara’s helpless form for a mere second before stepping toward the infant.
"Take him out the east elevator," Arthur commanded quietly. "She doesn't see him."