Jaan-e-Azlan❤

45

The moment the word "poison" left the doctor's mouth, the atmosphere in the room didn't just break—it shattered. The soft, domestic hope of treating her at home vanished, replaced by the cold, clinical reality of a race against time.

Azlan didn't stay on the floor for long. The breakdown was a flash—a momentary collapse of the man before the machine took over. He stood up, his movements abrupt and jagged. He wiped the tears from his face with the back of his blood-stained hand, his eyes transitioning from broken glass to frozen steel.

"Heated transport. Now," Azlan commanded, his voice vibrating with a frequency that made the nearby cousins jump to attention.

"Jawad!" Azlan barked into his phone, already striding toward the stairs while the family watched in stunned silence. "Clear the route to City Central General. I want the Highway Police to cordone off every intersection between here and the hospital. If a single civilian car slows us down, I'll have someone's badge."

He didn't wait for a response. He turned to Sarim and Izhaan. "You two, get the SUV ready. I want the armored one. It has the smoothest suspension. She can't be jolted."

"Azlan, the doctors said—" Saleem Khan started, but Azlan cut him off with a look that could have halted a heartbeat.

"The doctors at home don't have a dialysis machine capable of filtering neurotoxins at this speed. I've already called the Director of City Central. Their Chief of Surgery is being airlifted from his vacation as we speak."

Azlan walked back into the room, ignoring the protest of his own bullet-strained shoulder. He wrapped Mantasha in a thick, thermal blanket, lifting her as if she were made of spun sugar. Her head lolled against his chest, her skin burning with a dry, terrifying heat.

The journey was a blur of blue and red sirens. Azlan sat in the back of the SUV, Mantasha cradled in his lap, his hand never leaving her pulse point. Every time her heart skipped a beat, his own seemed to stop.

The family followed in a frantic convoy behind them-Arif Khan, the cousins, and even Rehman Khan, refusing to stay behind.

When they screeched to a halt at the emergency entrance, a team of twelve specialists was already waiting. The Director of the hospital stood at the front.

"Azlan, we're ready," the Director said, his face pale. He knew the weight of the girl in Azlan's arms. He knew that if she didn't leave this hospital alive, the Khan family's grief would be enough to level the city.

Azlan handed her over to the paramedics, but he held onto the gurney as they sprinted toward the ICU.

The double doors of the ICU hissed shut, and for the first time in hours, Azlan was separated from her. He stood in the sterile, white hallway, the smell of antiseptic replacing the smell of the damp cellar.

He pulled out his phone. His voice was calm now—a terrifying, low-frequency calm.

"Hello? Dr. Arlow? Yes, in London," Azlan said into the phone, ignoring the fact that it was the middle of the night in the UK. "I'm sending you a file. Neurotoxin profile. I need the antidote synthesis protocols in the next twenty minutes. I don't care what it costs. Buy the lab. Buy the patent. Just send the data."

He hung up and looked at his family, who were gathered in the waiting wing.

Azlan walked over to them, his posture straight, his aura radiating a dark, unstoppable authority.

"She is in the best hands in this country," Azlan told them, his voice echoing in the quiet hall. "And if this country isn't enough, I will bring the world to this hallway. No one is allowed to give up. No one is allowed to cry. We are Khans. We fight."