“Not if it’s completely clear medical-grade silicone, and not if it’s hollowed out like a vacuum cup,” Leo countered, remembering a toy he had found in the park the week before. “The scans see right through it because it’s filled with fluid now, matching the body’s density. The flat base is stuck against the back of his throat like a plunger.”
Isabelle Coleman stopped sobbing for a fraction of a second, her eyes darting from Leo to her silent son. Richard Coleman, gripped by a sudden, desperate instinct that defied all logic, slammed his hand onto the security guard’s arm. “Let him go,” the billionaire commanded, his voice trembling but absolute. “Let the boy speak.”
The room fell into a tense, suffocating silence. The flatline on the monitor continued its agonizing, continuous beep. Every second mattered. The doctors looked at each other, their professional pride warring with the stark reality that they had already failed.
