One hour later.
The smoke had cleared, and the doctors had somehow maintained order in the obsessively clean halls of the hospital. The sterilized balance of the white had been disturbed for a moment, but it was quickly restored through frenzied activity.
Vicky led Adrien and Greg through the halls, away from the dorky waiting room. Since meeting, they had built a fragile and hesitant but existent friendship.
“So, who’s your mom?” Vicky asked, looking back at Adrien.
Adrien’s face turned to stone. His eyes, unseen by Vicky, flashed a sickly yellow for a moment.
Greg broke in, sensing tension. “Room 121?” he said hurriedly, stepping in between Adrien and Vicky.
“Yeah,” she said, confused.
“Great.” He walked towards the room.
Vicky shrugged at Adrien and followed. Adrien frowned.
Mrs. St. Paul was as fragile as ever, having woken from her sleep. The door creaked.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said, looking lovingly at Vicky. She frowned, seeing the others. “Who are these?”