It was a cold night in Chicago, Illinois, USA. Rain fell in a steady drizzle—not harsh, but relentless—the kind of rain that seeps into the streets and lingers in the air. Inside St. Mary’s Hospital, everything followed its usual rhythm. Emergency lights glowed faintly against sterile walls. Monitors beeped softly in patient rooms, and the muffled footsteps of nurses echoed through quiet corridors. There was a sense of sacred stillness, the kind that often blankets a hospital at night.
Then, without warning, the automatic doors at the main entrance slid open. No ambulance. No patients. Only the sound of rain dripping from the awning outside.
And then Max appeared.
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