Heartbeat away from death

The storm outside had reached its peak, a monstrous force that threatened to tear through the city. The wind howled like a grieving mother, rattling windows, bending trees, demanding to be heard. Rain lashed against the hospital, relentlessly, as if the heavens themselves were weeping.

Inside, the war wasn't against the storm. It was against death itself.

Riya lay still, a fragile thread of life held together by machines. Her breaths weren't hers—they belonged to the ventilator. Brain dead. The words had rung through the room like a death knell.

No hope. No future. Just a body waiting to die.

Yet, the moment the doctors had dared to suggest letting go, the air had turned suffocating.

Vikram's father—Rana Rathore—had moved first. A slow, measured step toward the doctor who had spoken. The man—seasoned, experienced—had gone pale in an instant. The weight of Rana Rathore's stare was heavier than the storm outside.

"If you speak of my daughter's death again," his voice was dangerously calm, "you will not leave this hospital alive."

The doctor swallowed hard.

"This hospital belongs to me," his voice sharpened, cold as a blade. "She will breathe as long as I command it."

The entire team of doctors stiffened. The unspoken truth hung in the air—this wasn't just a grieving father's anger. It was a warning.

Then, Vikram moved.

He wasn't his father, wasn't feared like him, but at this moment, he was just as terrifying. His grief, his rage, his desperation—it bled from him.

He grabbed the nearest doctor by the collar, his voice a growl between clenched teeth. "She is not dead. She will not die. If you fail, you better pray you go before she does."

The doctor trembled in his grasp, nodding furiously. "W-We'll do everything we can—"

"You should have done that already," Vikram spat, shoving him back.

The doctors scrambled. Not out of duty. Out of fear.

Yet, even as they moved, their hesitation lingered. Because they didn't believe in miracles. They had already accepted defeat.

But Vikram hadn't.

His hands clutched Riya's cold fingers, his lips barely moving as he whispered, "Come back. You hear me? You're not allowed to leave me. Please, come back."

His mother sobbed beside him, her forehead pressed against Riya's hand, pleading through choked words. "My child, my baby girl, don't do this to us… Come back to your mother, Riya…"

Rana stood still. Silent. But his fingers trembled as he brushed them against her forehead. "You're not leaving us. Do you understand? We did not raise you to lose. Fight, Riya."

The air grew heavier. The storm outside raged on.

Then—

A falter.

The heart monitor beeped—slower. Unstable.

A warning.

Then—one long, piercing note.

Flatline.

For a second, the world stopped.

Then—chaos.

"NO!" Vikram surged forward, shaking her. "RIYA! WAKE UP!"

His father, who had always been the strongest, the coldest, the one who never broke—grabbed the doctor's wrist in a crushing grip. His voice, when it came, was lethal.

"Revive her. Or you die with her."

The doctor, sweating, scrambled for the crash cart.

"Charging to 200—CLEAR!"

A violent jolt surged through her body.

The lights flickered. The air itself crackled.

No pulse.

Vikram's mother let out a gut-wrenching sob, her hands clutching her daughter as if she could force her soul to stay.

"AGAIN!"

Another jolt.

The storm outside howled in response, the wind shrieking, the sky tearing open with a flash of blinding lightning.

Nothing.

The warmth had already begun to fade from her fingers.

Vikram's throat tightened. His chest ached, a suffocating pressure that felt like he was being buried alive. His mother's sobs grew weaker, as if even her voice was breaking under the weight of despair.

Then—one final attempt.

"Charging to 300—CLEAR!"

The final shock tore through her.

A flash of white—not just lightning, but something more.

Electricity rippled through the air, spreading like an unseen force. The walls trembled, the lights flickered wildly—and then everything went still.

The storm outside paused.

Not stopped—paused.

As if something beyond this world had seized control of time itself.

Then—

A sound.

Soft. Faint. A gasp.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The heart monitor beeped. Slow. Steady. Alive.

Vikram exhaled a shuddering breath, his entire body collapsing onto the bed in relief. His mother sobbed uncontrollably, pressing frantic kisses to Riya's hands, her forehead, her cheeks.

His father, still silent, released a breath—a breath that was dangerously close to a sob.

The doctors, still in shock, stared at the monitors.

This… this shouldn't have been possible.

Her brain activity had flatlined. She was gone. But now…

"She's stable," one doctor whispered in disbelief. "This… this is…"

Impossible.

Yet, Vikram didn't care.

She was alive. That's all that mattered.

But then—he felt it.

Her hand, still in his—cold.

Even as her heart beat again, the warmth didn't return.

And then—the scar appeared.

Not gradually. Not as a mark of injury.

It formed.

Right before their eyes.

A faint, glowing light shimmered at her shoulder. It was not a wound—it was a memory imprinted on her body. A wound that had never been there before.

A wound that looked exactly like a gunshot.

Vikram's breath hitched.

His father, usually a man who believed in nothing but strength and reality, stared at the mark, his eyes dark with something unreadable.

His mother clutched her chest, murmuring prayers.

The doctors stepped back, exchanging glances of fear.

This… this wasn't normal.

And deep down, Vikram knew.

This wasn't over.

He didn't know that the sister he had just fought so hard for was already gone.

That the girl lying in the hospital bed—alive, but in a coma—was no longer Riya.

It was Shruti.