Chapter 89: New Year’s Eve at a Hospital (1)
The sleek automatic doors of Santa Lucia Medica Privata parted with a quiet hiss as Alex stepped into the hospital lobby. It was pristine. Too pristine. The kind of clean that almost felt aggressive, like it was trying too hard to convince you everything inside was safe, controlled, untouched by the chaos of the world outside.
White-tiled floors gleamed like polished glass under the overhead lights, reflecting the soft glow back up into Alex’s face, making him squint for a moment. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air like humidity in August, so sharp it almost stung the inside of his nose, mixing with the faint, stale tang of air conditioning that had been running for too many hours straight.
The occasional squeak of rubber soles echoed off the sterile white walls, lonely sounds that felt like whispers in a library, reminding him that people came here for things that were too heavy to say out loud. People came here because they were desperate, or dying, or both.
His heart beat faster, not from exertion, not from nerves before a match, but something closer to unease. The kind that crawled up your spine, whispering that something was wrong even if you couldn’t see it yet.
He paused just past the entrance, his eyes scanning the lobby automatically, like he was analyzing a pitch before a game. Reception desk dead ahead, a lone man in a pale-blue uniform tapping away at a keyboard, head down, oblivious. Four corridors branching off in different directions like arteries, each one disappearing into sterile brightness.
This place was massive. It didn’t feel like a hospital. It felt like a five-star hotel trying to hide its true nature, like it was wearing a disguise of calm lighting and soft elevator music to distract you from the fear that lived here.
That’s when it hit him.
He didn’t know what room Isabella was in. He didn’t even know if she was the one admitted. For all he knew, she wasn’t sick at all, and he was about to make a complete fool of himself. All he had was the name "Rossetti," a vague lead, and a hunch that felt heavier than a bag of match balls.
"Idiot," Alex muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.
He glanced back over his shoulder, catching his reflection in the glass doors behind him. His hair was slightly messy from the drive, eyes sharp but tired, Lecce training jacket zipped up to the collar with the crest gleaming proudly over his heart.
Yeah, real incognito, Walker. Great job.