The room stayed silent, the only sound coming from the soft ticking of the wall clock. Mr. Linton lay still, the thin white hospital blanket pulled up to his chest, his face pale against the pillow. Eric sat by his side, the remote control resting loosely in his hand, not sure what to do next.
The afternoon sunlight had faded now, and a gray light filled the room. Eric stood slowly, stretching his legs. Maybe some news would help, he thought, maybe something to lighten the heavy mood hanging in the room.
He clicked the television on. A bright flash of light filled the screen, followed by the familiar news music.
But what came next made Eric freeze.
The news anchor, a sharp-looking man in a dark blue suit, spoke with a serious voice, "Breaking news from the Victoria Horse Race Event. Peeta Brian Getty, brother and long-time rival of Mr. Linton Getty, made a surprise appearance today at the race."
The screen showed Peeta, wearing a dark cap, sunglasses, and a shaved beard, smiling slightly as he walked through a large crowd at the race event. The camera caught a glimpse of Mr. Linton himself — just before the collapse — falling forward, clutching his chest.
Eric quickly changed the channel, his hands shaking a little.
Another news channel. Same scene. Different reporter.
"...in what many are calling a shocking moment, Mr. Linton Getty was seen collapsing just minutes after Peeta Brian Getty was spotted at the grandstand..."
Eric pressed the remote again, flipping to a third channel.
Same thing. Peeta's arrival. Mr. Linton's collapse. The two moments tied together, one after the other.
Eric turned off the television completely, the screen going black with a faint click. The room sank back into silence.
He turned to look at Mr. Linton. The old man was awake now, his eyes half-open, staring at the ceiling, his face set like stone.
Eric hesitated, then spoke softly.
"Sir... do you want to talk about it?"
He nodded toward the dark TV screen, where a few minutes ago, the whole world had seen what had happened.
Mr. Linton turned his head slowly to look at him. His lips curved into a small, hard smile, a smile without any joy.
"No," he said simply. "There's nothing to say."
Eric nodded, swallowing the words that rose to his throat. Words of comfort, of worry, of anger. None of them would help here. None of them would change anything.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The air in the room smelled too clean, too sharp, filled with the strong scent of disinfectant. It made the room feel empty and cold.
Finally, Mr. Linton stirred. He pushed the blanket off slowly and swung his legs off the bed, planting his bare feet on the cold floor.
"I want to go home," he said, his voice low but clear.
Eric stood quickly. "Sir, are you sure? Maybe you should rest a little more."
"I said I want to go home," Mr. Linton repeated, a little more sharply this time. "The smell of this place... this antiseptic... it's making me dizzy."
Eric didn't argue. He helped Mr. Linton stand, steadying him as the older man swayed slightly. Mr. Linton gripped Eric's arm tightly, drawing strength from the younger man's solid frame.
They moved slowly down the bright, polished corridor, past nurses who threw worried glances their way but said nothing. Mr. Linton walked with the stubborn pride that had carried him through a lifetime of battles — in business, in society, in his own family.
At the hospital entrance, the fresh evening air hit them both like a blessing. The last traces of sunlight faded on the horizon, leaving the sky a deep purple.
Eric opened the back door of the black Mercedes parked right at the front. He helped Mr. Linton ease himself into the leather seat, then closed the door gently.
He climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine, the soft purr of the car filling the silence.
As they drove away, the tall white building of the hospital grew smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The streets rolled by, empty and calm, the lamps casting long yellow pools of light on the road.
Finally, Mr. Linton spoke.
"Eric," he said, his voice calm, almost tired.
"Yes, sir?" Eric answered quickly, glancing at him through the mirror.
"The next time something like this happens..." Mr. Linton paused, breathing deeply, "...if I fall sick again, if something urgent happens... I'm not going to any hospital."
Eric frowned but kept his eyes on the road. "Sir, but—"
"No," Mr. Linton said firmly. "I'll be treated at home. I'll bring doctors. Nurses. Machines if necessary. But I will stay in my own house."
He leaned back against the seat, his face turned toward the window.
"I can't stand the smell of antiseptic. It smells like sickness. Like death." He spoke quietly, more to himself than to Eric.
Eric tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He understood. Deep inside, he understood what Mr. Linton meant.
At home, Linton would be king. In the hospital, he was just another weak man among many. A number on a bed.
Eric nodded. "Alright, sir. I'll arrange everything next time."
Mr. Linton closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again.
"And, Eric," he added, "next time, even if I fall and they say it's urgent... don't listen to anyone. Bring the doctors to me. Not me to them."
"I promise, sir," Eric said firmly.
The car moved smoothly through the city, past shops closing for the night, past tired workers heading home. The world looked so ordinary outside — but inside the car, Eric could feel the weight of everything that had happened.
The horse race. Peeta's appearance. Mr. Linton's collapse.
And now this quiet drive away from the hospital — away from antiseptic smells and cold white walls — back to a house that smelled of wood and leather, of old books and wealth, of life.
Eric glanced again at Mr. Linton, who sat quietly, looking out at the night.
The old lion was still alive. Still strong in spirit, even if the body had betrayed him.
And Eric knew, deep down, that Mr. Linton would fight on — as long as he could — not just for his pride, but for everything he had built with his own two hands.
For his name.
For his legacy.
For himself.
The car rolled on through the sleeping city, carrying them both home.