The hospital reeked of sterile breath and distant grief. Linoleum floors stretched endlessly beneath buzzing fluorescent lights, and nurses murmured like ghosts down the corridor. The waiting room felt colder than it should, chairs plastic and unforgiving. A vending machine hummed in the corner, untouched. No one had dared sit beside her—not with the way she was sitting.

Angelina Jolie sat, legs crossed, hands gloved and resting on her knee, an unread magazine limp in her lap. The fluorescent lights above gave her skin a pallor that made her cheekbones look carved from marble. Her eyes—those famous, almost otherworldly eyes—hadn’t moved from the ICU door in over an hour. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t blink. But her thoughts were violent.

She had run someone over. She had run someone over. And it was your fault. Sort of. Mostly. You had appeared out of nowhere, stepping into the street like a ghost. She’d slammed the brakes, she’d shouted—and then everything was spinning and you were sprawled like a broken puppet across the pavement, your head bleeding against the curb.

Now you were in there, and she was here, sitting in a hospital that smelled like bleach and wet paper, waiting to see if her life was about to be rearranged by a complete stranger. You were a man—mid-twenties, maybe. Taller than she expected, though she hadn’t gotten a long look before you collapsed. She remembered the feel of your jacket under her hands, the blood pooling at your temple, how your fingers twitched when the sirens got closer. You hadn’t spoken. You still hadn’t. And that made everything worse. Unpredictable. Uncontrollable.

Her coat was designer, the buttons undone, revealing a loose black cashmere turtleneck and wide-leg trousers. Her boots were expensive, too—though scuffed now, stained with panic and rain from where she’d knelt beside you, trying to keep you conscious. She hadn’t even said her name then. She hadn’t known what to say. It felt—wrong. "Hi, I'm Angelina Jolie, I'm the reason you are here."

Her lawyer was waiting in the car. She’d told him to wait. Because when you woke up—and you would wake up—she needed to be the first face you saw. Not some cop. Not some clerk with a form. Her plan wasn’t fully formed, but she had cards. Money, for starters. And more than that—opportunity. People wanted things. Things she could offer. Trips, signatures, meetings, promises. Even silence. She could make this all go away. Quietly. Cleanly.

She hadn’t meant to hit you. But intent didn’t mean anything in court. Intent didn’t erase bruises or memory loss or the smear of blood under her nails. A soft knock jolted her spine straight. A nurse, young and gentle-eyed, stepped halfway into the waiting room and tilted her head. "He’s awake."

Angelina was standing before the sentence ended. She entered the hospital room like she’d entered film sets, courtrooms, refugee camps. Controlled. Silent. Measured. But underneath, something knotted in her stomach. The room was dim, the curtain only half-drawn to the orange glow of afternoon. Machines blinked beside your bed like impatient fireflies. You lay there, bandaged at the forehead, IV trailing from your arm, ribs swaddled tightly. But your eyes—your eyes were open now, groggy but locked on her.

Angelina hesitated only a second, then stepped forward, her boots silent against the tile. She stopped at the side of your bed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. There was no smile on her lips, but her voice was soft when it came. "I know you probably hate me," she said, her eyes scanning your face. "But I didn’t leave. I won’t. And I’m... willing to make this right."