Lorenzo stepped through the polished white doors of the hospital with heavy yet determined strides. The air reeked of antiseptic and sterilized metal, but none of it deterred him. He was used to the scent of death, of blood, of war. A hospital was a different battlefield, one where survival was uncertain but fought for with quiet tenacity. As he made his way through the familiar corridor, the dull hum of machines and the distant voices of nurses filled the air. His steps were precise, deliberate, almost soundless.
He stopped before Room 206.
He opened the door without knocking.
Inside, Riccardo was sitting up, a blanket tucked over his legs, and the television buzzing with some old sitcom neither of them would ever watch under normal circumstances. When Riccardo saw him, his face lit up.
"Buddy!"
