“Get away from her,” Ethan said, his voice low and dangerous.

The man reached into his jacket, his fingers wrapping around something dark and metallic.

Footsteps echoed loudly down the concrete corridor outside.

“Security! Hands where we can see them!” a voice shouted from the stairwell.

The man with the scar froze, his eyes darting between Ethan and the approaching guards.

He pulled his hand out of his jacket, empty, and took two steps backward toward the emergency exit.

“This isn’t over, Doctor,” the man whispered.

He turned and sprinted down the hallway, disappearing into the red glow of the exit stairwell just as three armed hospital guards burst into the room.

The guard in the lead had his flashlight raised, sweeping the dark NICU.

“Is everyone alright in here?” he asked, breathing heavily.

“We need this floor locked down immediately,” Ethan said, his hands trembling as he checked the monitors on incubator four.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I rushed to the side of the plastic crib.

Inside, our daughter slept, her tiny chest rising and falling beneath the wires.