Chapter 187 Chapter Ninety-Two: Welcome Back.

Chapter 187 Chapter Ninety-Two: Welcome Back.
Chapter Ninety-Two: Welcome Back.

One Hour Before the Arrests Of The Thornes.

Ileana stepped out of the interrogation room and into the corridor, the sterile air feeling heavier than before. Relief should have followed—answers usually brought relief—but instead, her chest felt tight, like something was coiled around her ribs.

Wyatt Matthews. Veis. Whatever his real name was. He had hated her. That much was clear now. She dragged a hand through her hair, pacing a few steps before stopping again.

‘Why?’

Because of Wilbur? Because her grandfather had destroyed his father’s compound? Or was it simpler than that—blame, festering and directionless, finally landing on her?

The questions battered her thoughts one after another, relentless. She’d always known the Thornes saw her as an inconvenience—an obstacle they’d been forced to acknowledge. Still, hearing just how indifferent they’d been to the idea of her being murdered twisted something deep in her chest.

She’d already died because of them once. Logic said it shouldn’t hurt anymore. But it did.

She swallowed hard, jaw tightening.

‘It still hurts.’

And maybe that was the most infuriating part of all.

Her phone vibrated in her hand. Ileana glanced down and opened the message.

Remy: \[Callie just told us what happened. I know this has been a lot for you, my love. I’m glad Vy and Phoebe are there with you. If you need me there too, call me. I’ll come running.
I love you.\[

Her vision blurred. She blinked rapidly, forcing the tears back before they could fall.

“Hey.”

Walter’s voice broke through her thoughts.

She looked up to find him standing a few feet away, concern etched into his face.

“How you holding up?”

he asked gently.

Ileana exhaled, schooling her expression. A faint smile tugged at her lips.

“I’m okay,”

she said.

“Really.”

Walter studied her for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t press. Instead, he glanced toward the closed interrogation room door.

“What do you think she’s saying to her in there?”

Ileana’s jaw tightened.

“If I know my Aunt Vy,”

she said quietly,

“nothing pleasant.”

Soon, Phoebe emerged from the restroom, drying her hands on a paper towel. She slowed when she saw Ileana’s face.

“All finished?”

Phoebe asked softly. Ileana nodded.

Phoebe hesitated. She wanted to ask more—'How are you?’ ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Do you need anything?’—but she knew the answers already. Ileana would smile. Say she was fine. Change the subject.

So Phoebe did it for her.

“Did you tell your uncle the good news yet?”

Walter’s head snapped up.

“What good news?”

Ileana’s expression shifted then—subtle, but unmistakable. Hope flickered across her face.

“We ran the final tests,”

she said.

“The Panxoten worked.”

Walter stared at her.

“…It worked?”

he repeated.

She nodded.

“Completely.”

His breath hitched, eyes widening. For a moment, he simply looked at her—really looked at her—as if seeing her clearly for the first time.

“You confirmed the cure?”

he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure?”

“As close to confirmation as I can get for now.”

Walter let out a shaky breath, running a hand down his face.

“You never cease to amaze me,”

he said, a note of awe slipping through his voice.

“I’ve always known you were special, Ilie. But this—”

She ducked her head slightly, embarrassed.

“I think we can save Corey,”

she said.

“But we need to move fast. I should get to the hospital.”

Before Walter could respond, the interrogation room door opened. Vy stepped out.

She moved slowly, deliberately. Her face was calm—almost blank—but her eyes held something sharp. Satisfied.

Behind her, muffled sobs echoed from the room.

Ileana stiffened.

“Aunt Vy…”

She hesitated.

“What did you say to her?”

Vy stopped in front of her, lips curling into a faint, bitter smile.

“I spoke to her,”

she said simply.

“Mother to mother.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened. Ileana glanced at her, then back at Vy, exhaling slowly.

“…Okay,”

Ileana said. She knew better than to push. She shifted gears.

“We’re heading to the hospital to try Panxoten on Corey. Do you want to come with us—or go home?”

Vy’s expression softened immediately.

“I’ll go,”

she said.

“I’d love to see my niece at work.”

Color crept into Ileana’s cheeks. She nodded, smiling shyly.

“Okay,”

she said, turning to Walter.

“We’re heading out.”

Walter nodded, already pulling his phone from his pocket.

“Edward just texted,”

he said.

“They’re moving in to arrest the Thornes now. While he handles that, I’ll be interrogating Officer Rhinestone. He’s the one who infected Cleese with the Doxoten.”

Ileana’s expression hardened, resolve settling in her eyes.

“Good,”

she said.

As she headed for the exit, she quickly typed out a message.

Ileana: \[Heading to the hospital. Panxoten worked.\]

The reply came almost instantly.

Remy: \[I’m on my way.\]

She slipped her phone into her pocket, shoulders squaring as she stepped forward.

Whatever came next—arrests, confessions, fallout—could wait. Right now, there was a life to save.

\------

Ileana arrived at the hospital thirty minutes later, Phoebe and Vy tight on her heels. The automatic doors slid open and the smell of antiseptic hit her instantly. She didn’t slow.

Her eyes were locked down the hall leading to Corey Whittman’s private ICU suite.

She had already called his parents—explained the experimental vaccine, the risks, the uncertainty. She could still hear Suzanne Whittman’s sobs breaking over the phone when Ileana told her there was a chance—a real chance—to reverse the paralytic coma caused by Doxoten.

Time had run out.

Dr. Welch’s message had been blunt.

Multi-organ stress. Deteriorating vitals. We can’t wait.

They entered the room to the sound of monitors chirping irregularly. Corey lay motionless, ventilator hissing softly at his side. His skin was pale, clammy.

Welch looked up sharply.

“You’re here.”

“Yes,”

Ileana said.

“Status.”

“Blood pressure’s unstable,”

he replied.

“Heart rate’s been climbing. Oxygen saturation is holding—for now.”

Phoebe was already pulling on gloves.

“I’ll prep the sterile field.”

“Good,”

Ileana said.

“I’ll document.”

Vy moved immediately to the Whittmans, who stood rigid near the wall.

Ileana turned to Dr. Welch.

“I need the procedure table brought closer. And I want continuous ECG recording.”

“You got it,”

Welch quickly gave the orders.

“Nurse—move the table. Full monitoring.”

Metal scraped as equipment was repositioned. The room shifted from waiting to motion. Ileana turned to the Whittmans and forced herself to slow.

“Mr. and Mrs. Whittman,”

she said evenly.

“I need to confirm consent—one last time.”

The room fell silent.

“This vaccine is still experimental. It has not been tested on a human subject. We’ve confirmed in vitro success and toxin clearance at the cellular level, but I cannot guarantee outcome. There may be adverse reactions. Cardiac instability. Neurological complications. Or no response at all.”

Connor swallowed.

“And if we don’t do it?”

Phoebe answered quietly.

“His organs will continue to fail.”

Suzanne let out a broken breath.

Ileana met her gaze.

“This is his only option.”

Suzanne released Connor’s hand and stepped forward, taking Ileana’s trembling fingers in her own.

“The first time I saw you play the piano,”

she whispered,

“I knew those hands were special.”

Ileana froze.

“Hands that create,”

Suzanne said through tears.

“Hands that give life to sound.”

Her voice broke.

“And now… hands that might save my son.”

Connor nodded firmly.

“We understand the risks.”

Suzanne squeezed Ileana’s hands.

“Ilie… my son is dying.”

“If there’s even the smallest chance—”

“We’ll take it,”

Connor said.

“It’s what Corey would want.”

Suzanne nodded.

“We trust you. Please.”

Ileana inhaled slowly.

“I will do everything I can.”

Phoebe handed her the syringe—filled with a crystalline blue solution.

Vy wrapped an arm around Suzanne’s shoulders.

Dr. Welch raised the camera.

“Recording started.”

Ileana checked her watch and activated the voice recorder.

“The time is 16:48. Patient Corey Whittman, male, twenty-one. Diagnosis: Doxoten-induced paralytic coma with secondary cardiac instability.”

The door opened quietly. Remy stepped inside. He didn’t speak—just nodded at Ileana, grounding her.

“The experimental vaccine Panxoten will now be administered intravenously,”

Ileana continued.

“Apprentice Phoebe Broch assisting.”

Phoebe sterilized Corey’s arm, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Ready.”

Ileana leaned in. Her hand trembled—not from doubt, but from the weight of consequence.

She injected the vaccine.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then—

“Heart rate’s rising,”

Welch said sharply.

“One-twenty. One-thirty.”

“Oxygen saturation dropping,”

the nurse added.

“Ninety-two—now eighty-eight.”

“Blood pressure’s crashing,”

Welch snapped.

“He’s going hypotensive.”

Alarms screamed.

Corey’s body jerked slightly.

“He’s going into ventricular tachycardia,”

the nurse said.

Suzanne screamed.

“Corey!”

“Prepare to cardiovert,”

Welch ordered.

“Charge to two hundred.”

“He’s losing pulse!”

Ileana shouted.

“That’s cardiac arrest,”

Welch said.

“Start CPR—now!”

Ileana climbed onto the bed and began compressions.

“One, two, three—”

“Clear!”

Welch yelled.

The shock hit. Corey’s body jolted.

“Resume CPR!”

Suzanne collapsed into a chair, sobbing.

“Come on, son,”

Connor shouted.

“Fight!”

“Rhythm check!”

Welch barked. The monitor flickered.

“Still unstable,”

the nurse said.

“Prepare second shock.”

Remy stood frozen, eyes locked on Ileana. He could see it now—the fear she refused to show.

“Clear!”

The second shock landed.

Silence.

Then—

“I’ve got a rhythm,”

the nurse said cautiously.

“Sinus… slow but present.”

“Pulse is back,”

Welch said.

“Blood pressure climbing—sixty systolic… seventy… eighty.”

Ileana sagged back, breath shaking, her legs like jelly.

The alarms softened.

Taking deep breaths, Ileana stepped forward slowly.

The ECG stabilized. Corey’s chest rose steadily with the ventilator.

Alive.

The room held its breath.

And then…

Corey’s brow furrowed faintly, a soft sound escaping his throat as if he were struggling to surface from a deep, endless sleep. His body gave a small jerk, shoulders shifting against the mattress.

His eyelids fluttered.

Once.

Twice.

Ileana’s heart nearly stopped.

She leaned forward instinctively, her hands hovering just above his, afraid to touch, afraid not to.

“Corey,”

she breathed, voice trembling now.

“Hey… you’re okay.”

Slowly—so slowly it felt like the world had narrowed down to nothing but this moment—his eyes opened.

They were unfocused at first, glassy and confused, darting weakly as if the room made no sense. Ileana held her breath, waiting, willing him to see her.

Then his gaze stilled.

And found her.

Recognition flickered—faint, fragile—but unmistakable.

A bright, breathless smile curved across Ileana’s lips, disbelief and joy crashing over her so hard it left her lightheaded. Tears formed, though she wouldn’t let them fall as she laughed softly through them.

His fingers twitched again, this time curling weakly around hers.

That was it.

Her smile widened, radiant and trembling as relief finally claimed her completely. She squeezed his hand gently, grounding herself in the warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his pulse beneath her fingertips.

“Well…”

she said softly, emotion threading every word.

“Welcome back.”