The pre-op holding area was cold and white. Two gurneys were wheeled in from opposite sides of the corridor, converging in the center.
On the left lay Malcolm Fotheringham, pale and hooked to machines, his eyes dark with fear and resentment. On the right lay William Croft, healthy but solemn, prepared to give away a piece of himself.
The orderlies paused to check the charts. For a moment, the gurneys were side-by-side.
The brothers didn’t speak. There were no apologies or jokes. But for the first time in their lives, they locked eyes without the filter of rivalry. They saw the mirror image of their own mortality.
Malcolm gave a microscopic nod–a reluctant permission. William nodded back–a silent vow.
“Let’s go,” the surgeon announced.
The double doors swung open, and the Twin Kings were wheeled into the operating room together, their fates now surgically bound.