Hours passed, during which the doctors skilfully sealed up Ali's wound, and his life seemed to be out of immediate danger. As his eyes slowly fluttered open, pain surged through his body. Everything hurt. He noticed nurses gathered around him, performing various tasks that were a blur to his disoriented mind. His thoughts were muddled, and he struggled to make sense of the situation.

One of the nurses noticed I had opened my eyes and immediately rushed out of the room. I wasn't sure why, but moments later, the door swung open with a quiet elegance. In walked a figure who seemed to exude an air of power and wealth.

The newcomer was Mr. Victor Hawthorne, a renowned philanthropist and business magnate known for his enigmatic persona. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored suit that whispered of affluence, and his presence commanded attention. Behind him stood two imposing bodyguards, who surveyed the room with a vigilant watchfulness.

Mr. Hawthorne's sharp, discerning eyes locked onto me as he approached. He spoke in a measured tone, his voice carrying an air of authority. “I trust you are Ali?” he said, though it seemed more like a statement than a question.

I didn’t know this person at all, never seen his face either, but he looked important. Too important to be meeting me, in fact. I nodded cautiously. “Yes, I am. Who are you?”

"I am Victor Hawthorne," he replied, offering a curt nod. "I have been following your situation closely. It's a relief to see that your condition is stable." His words were delivered with a sense of genuine concern, and I couldn't help but wonder why someone of Mr. Hawthorne's stature would be taking an interest in me.

Before I could say another word, Mr. Hawthorne directed everyone in the room to leave, including the nurses. The only people left in the room were him and his two imposing bodyguards. As it was happening, my memory started to piece together some fragments of what had occurred earlier—the stabbing, the confrontation with Dave. It all made sense now as to why this man had come here. Perhaps he was here to eliminate the evidence, which in this case, was me. I still wanted to confirm this.

“How do you know about me?” I asked cautiously.

"It's because we detected a significant high electromagnetic frequency wave at our research centres," Mr. Hawthorne explained calmly. "So, we investigated and found that it originated here, with you at the very same coordinates where it occurred."

I was left utterly bewildered. "Electro-what now?" I muttered to myself. It was somewhat of a relief that this wasn't about Dave, but the replacement scenario didn't seem much better.

"Sorry, I don’t understand what you mean by that, could you explain?” I asked, my confusion palpable. It was a stupid question to ask him, given the circumstances.

Mr. Hawthorne's demeanour shifted drastically, his expression growing colder and more menacing. Without a word, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a gun, its cold metal gleaming ominously as he pointed it directly at me. The room seemed to freeze, and time itself held its breath.

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My heart pounded like a drum in my chest as panic surged through me. I couldn't comprehend why Mr. Hawthorne had suddenly turned hostile. Desperation coursed through my thoughts as I struggled to find an answer, but my brain wasn't functioning properly.

Chills ran down my spine as I stared down the barrel of the gun. I wasn't exactly scared, but I still desperately wanted to live. After all, it seemed only fair that I should, right?

Mr. Hawthorne's voice cut through the tense air, firm and clear. “What do you know?” he demanded, his finger still hovering on the trigger.

I responded urgently, my words tumbling out in a rush, “I really DON’T KNOW.” Then, with a chilling click, he removed the safety. The sound sent shivers down my spine, and in that moment, my mind felt frozen, uncertain of what to say or do to diffuse this dangerous situation.

Again, the thought crossed my mind that I wouldn't mind dying, but at the same time, I desperately clung to the will to live. My body betrayed my resolve, trembling uncontrollably, sweat pouring down my face, and my eyes welling up with tears. I had never experienced such intense fear, and my body's physical response was overwhelming.

My voice shook and cracked as I screamed in sheer terror, “I SWEAR, I AM TELLING THE TRUTH, I DON’T KNOW!” I knew deep down that it was over the moment those words left my lips. The room felt electrified with tension, and every passing second seemed to stretch into an agonizing eternity. The mysteries surrounding Mr. Hawthorne and the true nature of his intentions loomed large, casting a dark shadow over the already bewildering circumstances.

Then, something utterly surprising happened. "Very well," Mr. Hawthorne finally relented, his finger slowly easing off the trigger. He holstered the gun, its intimidating presence no longer threatening my life. "I'll believe you for now."

I still trembled with fear but took a deep, shaky breath, feeling a flood of relief wash over me. It was a test? I wondered. Was he trying to extract information from me? I didn't entirely understand what had just transpired, only grasping the vague outline of the situation. I had woken up in a hospital room, a wealthy man had walked in, pointed a gun at me, asked me something I didn't know, almost killed me, and then... didn't kill me. At least he wasn't pointing the gun at me anymore.

"He continued, "I'll be going for now. But stay in touch. Any attempts to run away or hide will be bad for you." My mind raced, but where would I even go? I was broke and had no escape plan. The man then motioned to one of his bodyguards with a subtle gesture. As we walked outside with the other bodyguard, the one he had signalled slowly approached me. Despite his earlier words about staying in touch, I couldn't help but feel a lingering sense of fear and uncertainty.

I slowly shifted to find a more comfortable position, though the pain coursing through me was excruciating. The mysterious man cautioned, “Do not move. It's still too soon.” He remained by my side until he was right next to me, a looming presence.

Then, with an air of nonchalance that was almost eerie, he picked up my phone from the table beside me and unlocked it. How did he know my passcode? I watched in silence as he typed something into my phone, my anxiety mounting. After a few seconds, he put it back down and said, “I've added Sir's number to your phone. If he calls, make sure to answer.” His words felt less like a request and more like a veiled threat, and I simply nodded in response.

"After a while, he too left the room, leaving it eerily quiet until the medical equipment emitted a monotonous series of beeps. At first, it startled me, but soon it became nothing more than an annoying reminder of my surroundings. Eventually, a few nurses entered the room, inserting a syringe into the drip I had been attached to. I couldn't help but wonder if it was poison, my mind fraught with suspicion and uncertainty.

As my eyes slowly started to close, I couldn't resist the pull of drowsiness. It was clear that the syringe contained some form of anaesthesia. In those last moments before I slipped into unconsciousness, my thoughts gravitated toward Aria. It felt like a cliché, but the memory of her screaming as I bled out felt achingly real. It was the only genuine concern I had heard in a long time, and it had been strangely comforting.

Then, a sudden realization jolted me awake, albeit briefly. "ID card?" I remembered that I wasn't wearing one; I had lost mine. The thought lingered for just a moment before darkness enveloped me once more, and I drifted into unconsciousness.