The deep, resonant hum of the Birla Hospital's nighttime quiet was a sound Abhimanyu Birla had come to know intimately. It was the sound of his life—the whirring of distant ventilators, the soft click of a nurse’s computer mouse down the hall, the faint echo of his own exhaustion. Tonight, it was a blanket that wrapped around his private office, a space that felt more like a confessional than a cabin after a twelve-hour, labyrinthine surgery on a pancreatic tumor. His scrubs were stiff with dried sweat, the smell of antiseptic clinging to his skin like a second layer. He sat in his ergonomic chair, eyes closed, head tilted back, the dull throb of a headache pulsing behind his temples. He’d texted Akshara an hour ago: “Not coming home. Surgery ended late. Staying on-site for emergency watch.” Her reply had been a simple, loving “Take care, my love. Rest.” The normalcy of it was a comfort, and a gnawing ache.