Machines still hummed, lights still blinked, but none of it mattered anymore. The thin green line on the monitor stretched across the screen without interruption—flat, unwavering, final.
Eight specialists stood silently around the hospital bed. The heart monitor displayed a single, long, uninterrupted line. Plan. The five-month-old son of billionaire Richard Coleman had just been declared clinically dead. Machines worth millions had failed. The best medical minds in New York had failed. And at that precise moment, a skinny, dirty, ten-year-old boy…
