Chapter 6 – Steady Hands

The cafeteria was half-empty and half-asleep.

Rain fell in slow sheets against the windows, the kind that blurred the world without soaking it. Outside, Singapore stirred under a veil of grey – traffic lights flickering, buses hissing along wet roads, the city preparing itself for another frenetic day. But inside the hospital, time dragged slower. Heavier.

Max sat alone at a corner table with a cup of black coffee he hadn’t touched.

The cup was cold now. He didn’t care.

He stared through the rain-streaked glass like the city might offer an answer. Like it could explain why his daughter still hadn’t woken up. Why his body pulsed with fire and strange light. Why the face he saw in the mirror looked like a man halfway between becoming something else – or falling apart completely.

His body still ached. Not sharp pain. Just… wrongness. Like something inside him hadn’t settled yet. The golden fire coiled low in his chest, half-sleeping, like a furnace on standby.

Footsteps approached. Quiet. Soft-soled.

A chair pulled back.

Max didn’t look.

“You look like shit,” came the voice – low, warm, and unhurried. “That’s how I knew it was you.”

Max turned his head slowly.

Dan Bailey sat across from him.

Same old Dan. White shirt under a forest-green jacket. Long brown hair, and always clean shaven, eyes that carried the kind of calm you didn’t earn from meditation apps. A kind of earned stillness – like he’d seen people at their worst and never once looked away. There was always an easiness about him. Something that April never shared. In one hand, he held a paper coffee cup. In the other, a plastic bag of bread rolls and fruit, which he placed in front of Max without a word.

Max stared at him for a moment longer.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“You’re late.”

Dan shrugged. “Sorry. Had to fight off airport security who thought I was flying in to join some doomsday cult. Apparently, half a motel blew up the night I landed. Bad timing, I guess.”

Max almost smiled.

Almost.

Dan took a sip of his coffee and leaned back in the chair. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand explanations. He just let the silence sit with them, like a third person at the table.

Outside, the rain picked up.

Inside, for the first time in days, Max didn’t feel like he was about to fall apart.

Dan’s presence was like a weight placed on the soul in the right way. Grounding. Familiar. Steady.

Finally, Max said, “She’s still not waking up.”

Dan nodded once. “I know. I saw her.”

Max looked at him sharply.

Dan held up a hand. “I didn’t stay long. I just... needed to see her. Been too long.”

Silence again. Only the rain.

Max looked down at the cold coffee. Then at the warm bread. His stomach turned in on itself. He hadn’t eaten since… he couldn’t remember.

Dan broke the silence.

“I know I’m not April. I’m not Liz’s father – you are. But I’m family. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Max didn’t answer right away. The fire roiled like lava inside his chest, quiet but listening.

Then he nodded.

Not much. But enough.

Dan reached over, slid the coffee closer to Max’s hand.

“You’re not the only one who came to fight.”

…………………

The bread was gone. The coffee cups were empty. The silence lingered but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It had changed shape.

Max leaned back in the plastic chair, one arm draped over the backrest, eyes scanning the ceiling like he was looking for cracks. Dan sat opposite him, calm as a monk, stirring a second cup of tea with a plastic straw like it mattered.

“I didn’t call you,” Max muttered.

Dan nodded, casual. “Didn’t need to.”

“Didn’t even tell you where I was.”

“You’ve got a pattern,” Dan said, stirring his tea without looking up. “You vanish when things break. But not far. Never far. You wait for the pain to turn into something useful.”

Max snorted. “You profiling me now?”

“Always have,” Dan replied, finally meeting his eyes. “You think pain is currency. Like if you suffer enough, you’ll buy her back.”

Max’s jaw tensed.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Dan added gently. “You don’t owe Liz your pain. You owe her your presence.”

That landed harder than Max expected. He looked away, down at the cold coffee.

“You flew halfway around the world to drop wisdom in a cafeteria?”

Dan smiled faintly. “Nah. I came because I love you both. I’m just sneaking in the wisdom while your guard’s down.”

Max exhaled slowly. He wasn’t angry. Not really. Just tired. And Dan was right.

“And besides” Dan said, sipping his tea. “I came because Liz is my niece. And because the last time you broke this bad, you almost didn’t make it back.”

Max didn’t answer.

Dan leaned forward now, his voice lowering.

“I saw the motel footage. Or what’s left of it. That explosion wasn’t natural. The news is calling it a gas leak but anyone with a brain can tell its bullshit.”

Max’s jaw clenched.

Dan’s eyes didn’t waver. “You want to tell me what happened in there?”

Max was quiet for a long time.

Then: “No.”

Dan accepted that without flinching. He simply nodded and leaned back again.

Max stared at him. “That’s it?”

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready,” Dan said. “Or you won’t. Either way, I’ll still be here.”

That did something to Max. Cracked something open under the surface. It wasn’t weakness. It was relief. That he didn’t have to explain the unexplainable right now.

Dan didn’t need to be convinced.

He just needed to be trusted.

After a long pause, Max finally asked, “You believe in demons?”

Dan didn’t answer right away. He watched the rain streak down the window behind Max, then said:

“I believe people are haunted.”

Max tilted his head. “That’s a dodge.”

“It’s the truth,” Dan said. “Sometimes, those ghosts are guilt. Sometimes grief. Sometimes... something worse.”

Max didn’t push.

Dan finished his tea. Tossed the cup in the trash with perfect aim.

“You don’t look okay,” he said. “You look like something’s trying to claw its way out of you.”

Max barked a dry cough. “Yeah. Feels about right.”

Dan stood up. Adjusted the jacket. Then met Max’s eyes.

“When it does, I’ll be here. Whatever you’re turning into – don’t face it alone.”

Max looked up at him, and for the first time in days, there was something close to gratitude in his eyes.

Dan nodded once. Then turned toward the elevator.

“You coming?”

Max hesitated. Then rose to his feet.

“Yeah. Just... give me a minute.”

Dan left him with silence again. But it wasn’t empty this time.

It was permission to breathe.

…………………

Max didn’t go far.

Just far enough to pretend he wasn’t unravelling. He stood near the vending machine in the hallway – arms crossed, gaze fixed on a bag of peanut M&Ms clinging to the spiral like a condemned man on a ledge.

His reflection in the glass flickered under the LED buzz – gold-veined, hollow-eyed, not quite human anymore. He clenched his fist. The glow beneath his skin dimmed, reluctantly.

Behind him, footsteps padded in soft rubber soles. Dan’s voice followed, casual and warm.

“You good?”

Max didn’t look back. “Define good.”

Dan stepped beside him, pulled a coin from his pocket like a magician prepping a trick. “Let’s see if fate’s feeling generous.”

He dropped it into the slot. The machine buzzed, the spiral turned—

—and the M&Ms caught. Jammed. Hanging by a thread.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Fate’s a dick.”

Dan crouched. Tapped the glass twice with his knuckles. No force. Just rhythm. Then, without any fanfare, he slid his hand under the security flap.

The flap didn’t resist. It didn’t even creak.

Max blinked.

Dan’s hand disappeared into the machine like it had been waiting for him. He grabbed the candy, pulled it free, and stood upright in one fluid motion.

He handed it to Max. “You’re welcome.”

Max stared. “That… shouldn’t have worked.”

Dan shrugged. “Maybe the flap was broken.”

“Or maybe reality just nodded and said, ‘Sure, let this one slide.’”

Dan grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Max squinted. There’d been a flicker. Not light. Not sound. Pressure. Just for a second, the air had felt thinner.

Dan was already walking down the hallway.

…………………

The door to Room 805 clicked open again.

This time, Dan entered alone.

Max stayed in the hallway, leaning against the glass with crossed arms, watching without watching. He couldn’t go through it again. Not right away. He needed a buffer. Someone who wouldn’t crumble under the weight.

Dan didn’t hesitate.

He stepped into the room, the scent of antiseptic and old breath hitting him immediately. Familiar. Clinical.

His eyes scanned the equipment first – instinct from too much time spent in hospitals. Vitals were stable. No alarms. No signs of active decline. Good.

Then his gaze landed on Liz.

And he stopped.

“…hey, it’s your one-and-only favourite Uncle Dan,” he said softly.

His voice barely carried over the steady pulse of the monitor. He took a breath, ran a hand through his thick hair, then approached the bed slowly, like a man walking across sacred ground.

She looked smaller than he remembered.

Pale. Wrapped in white sheets. Her silver-blonde hair had thinned, but someone had brushed it gently to one side. Her skin looked like paper stretched over porcelain—too fragile, too still. The faint scent of lavender clung to her pillow. Max’s doing, maybe. Or a nurse’s kindness.

Dan reached the edge of the bed and sat down in the chair Max had recently occupied. His hands stayed in his lap. He didn’t reach for her.

Not yet.

Instead, he studied her face.

“I remember when you were six,” he said. “You told me you'd be the first person to punch the Tooth Fairy if she didn’t leave enough cash.”

A breath. A soft laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You meant it, too.”

No answer. Only the rhythmic beep of heart monitors and the faint hiss of oxygen.

Dan nodded slowly. “You’ve always been the fiercest one in this family. Smarter than your dad. Funnier. Meaner, when you wanted to be.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees.

“I don’t know where you are right now. But I know you're still fighting.”

He paused.

Then finally, he reached out and took her hand.

It was small and cold in his palm, but real. Human. Tethered.

Dan didn’t glow. Didn’t spark. But Max – still watching through the door – felt something shift.

Pressure dropped.

The room settled.

For the first time since this all began, the air didn’t feel like it was on the verge of combustion. It felt… bearable. Still sad, still wrong but not on the edge of apocalypse.

Dan stayed that way for a long time, hand in hers, gaze steady.

No tears.

No panic.

Just presence.

After ten minutes, he spoke again.

“I’m not gonna say goodbye,” he whispered. “Because you’re not done yet. And neither is your dad.”

He stood, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and gently let go of her hand.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. And the day after that. However long it takes.”

He turned to the door and opened it – just enough to slip through.

Max hadn’t moved.

But his jaw was clenched, and his fingers dug deep into his biceps.

Dan looked him in the eye.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said. “Don’t forget that.”

Max nodded once. Tight. Controlled.

And the two men walked away in silence.

Behind them, in the sterile stillness of Room 805, Liz’s aura pulsed faintly – still that deep, storm-red glow Max had come to fear and admire. But now, it flickered. Shifted.

For the briefest second, a second colour laced through the red.

Not blue. Or White. Or silver. Like almost everyone else he’d seen.

Yellow.

A soft glimmer – like a candle catching the edge of sunlight – flickered around her temple, then vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Her fingers twitched once beneath the sheets.

And then the room was still again.