The smell of antiseptic clung to my skin, sharp and cold, like the invisible hand squeezing my chest. My fingers trembled as I gripped my mother's hand, clammy, weightless, her breath shallow beneath the harsh white light of the emergency ward.
"Blood pressure's dropping!" a nurse barked, her voice slicing through the chaos.
I wanted to scream at them to move faster, to do something, but my throat was sandpaper, my heart pounding too loud for words.
One moment, she'd been in the kitchen, humming softly while slicing tomatoes. The next, the knife had clattered to the floor, and she'd crumpled, her eyes rolling back, lips pale as wax.
The ride here was a blur rain streaking the taxi windows, the driver's muffled curses at traffic, my mother's head on my lap as I prayed for miracles I didn't believe in.
A doctor finally stepped forward, pulling off his gloves. "Acute heart failure. We'll stabilize her, but she needs an urgent surgery tonight."
"How much?" My voice cracked, though I already knew the answer would be something I couldn't give.
The doctor hesitated, eyes darting to the floor before he murmured, "Eight million dollars."
Eight. Million!!!!The words slammed into me like a physical blow. I was barely scraping through my job at a run-down diner, my pay just enough to keep the lights on and food on the table.
"I, I don't have that kind of money," I stammered.
His jaw tightened. "Without it, she won't survive the night."
Something in me broke then. All the years she had fought for me, gone hungry for me, stayed awake through the night sewing clothes by candlelight, all of it, and I was about to lose her because I was too poor to save her.
I rushed to the hospital's finance office, pleading, begging, offering to work off the debt in installments. They just shook their heads.
When I returned to the waiting room, the man waiting there was not someone I had seen before. He was tall, dressed in a charcoal suit that fit too perfectly to be off-the-rack, and his gaze… sharp, like he was assessing every inch of my soul.
"You're Elena Torres?" His voice was smooth, cultured. Dangerous.
"Yes…" I said warily.
He smiled, but it wasn't the kind of smile that warmed you. "The hospital director asked me to speak to you. There's one… unconventional way to pay."
I felt my stomach twist. "What are you talking about?"
He leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was a whisper only I could hear.
"It won't cost you money. But it will cost you everything else."