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“It’s not a mass,” Leo said quietly.

A few of the doctors exchanged glances, irritated.

“And what would you know?” one of them muttered.

Leo swallowed, suddenly aware of how out of place he looked—but he didn’t look away.

“When he tried to breathe,” Leo said, pointing gently under his own jaw, “something moved right here.”

The room fell still.

And then—

The monitor went silent.

Flat.

A single continuous tone filled the air.

Isabelle screamed.

One of the nurses turned away, covering her mouth.

A doctor checked the time.

“Prepare to call it,” someone whispered.

Security grabbed Leo’s arm.

“Let’s go.”

But Richard looked at him.

Not the way he had before—not as a distraction, not as a problem.

This time, he really looked.

At the boy’s face.

At the way he was staring at the child—not with curiosity, not with fear, but with focus.

“Wait,” Richard said.

The room paused.

“You said it’s not a tumor,” he said, his voice rough. “Then what is it?”

Leo hesitated.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, dented bottle.

“Oil,” he said. “My grandpa uses it when dust gets stuck in our throats. It helps things move.”

The chief doctor shook his head immediately. “This is absurd—”

“I saw something earlier,” Leo interrupted softly.

Everyone looked at him.

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