Dreams and Realities

by Skyfish_22

Summary:

"I'm sorry," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. My fingers curled around the IV pole. I was ready to turn away, slip back into my ward before anyone made a fuss.

But then he moved.

With calm, deliberate steps, he walked toward me, closing the distance effortlessly. I froze, my grip tightening on the pole.

Chapter 1: Staying Alive

I walked slowly, my steps sluggish, as if the weight of my own despair had settled deep in my chest. Each breath felt heavy, dragging me further into exhaustion. The hospital gown I wore was a dull, lifeless shade of blue, its thin fabric hanging loosely over my frame. Cold, impersonal and devoid of comfort.

In my hand, I clutched the cold metal pole of an IV drip stand, its wheels rattling softly against the linoleum as I dragged it along. The transparent tube connecting me to the saline bag swayed with each step, a quiet, persistent reminder of my frailty. The slow, rhythmic drip of the fluid felt almost mocking, a patience I couldn't afford as I forced myself forward, one aching step at a time.

I was tired. Tired of feeling like this. Tired of counting the days I'd been stuck in this place.

Three months now? Or more? I didn't even fucking care anymore.

The thought of marking another day, acknowledging how long I'd been trapped in this cycle, made me sick. I didn't want to know. I didn’t want to count. I hated this place. These walls, this routine, the way time stretched endlessly, leaving me unchanged.

 

I just wanted to leave.

 

But where would I go?

 

What I had faced... it was tearing me apart.

 

My family

 

The weight of it pressed against my ribs, making even breathing feel like a struggle.

I walked farther, slow but determined, until I reached the balcony near the lift. The night stretched out before me, vast and inky black, with only a handful of dim stars breaking through. It had to be past 1 a.m. now. Another night, another rule broken. I wasn’t supposed to leave my ward. I knew that. But I did it anyway.

Shanda, the nurse, was probably tired of me by now.

That afternoon, I hadn’t wanted to eat. I just sat there, staring at the untouched tray, the smell of bland hospital food twisting my stomach. I could see it in her face, how exhausted she was, how my refusal wore on her patience. Her tone had been sharper than before, her words clipped, laced with something close to frustration.

 

"I can't keep doing this with you every day. Do you even want to get better?"

 

I couldn't blame her. No one could keep their patience with someone like me.

 

 

---

 

 

Snow drifted down in hushed whispers, illuminated by the dim glow of the overhead lights. Beyond the reinforced glass enclosing the hospital’s secured balcony, the bare branches outside were dusted with white, the delicate flakes clinging before slipping free, tumbling soundlessly to the ground.

I tilted my head back, pressing a hand lightly against the cold glass as I looked up. Through the transparent barrier, the sky stretched endlessly, dark and vast, speckled with falling snow. And for a moment, I wasn’t here.

 

I was somewhere else.

 

Somewhere beneath an open sky, standing beside Denise, watching New Year fireworks bloom like flowers against the night. Laughter had filled the air, and the countdown had felt endless. Back then, I had no doubt I would spend the year chasing my plans with friends and family.

Now, standing here, wrapped in nothing but exhaustion and emptiness, separated by the glass.

 

It felt completely distant.

 

Would I even be alive to see another countdown?

 

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

 

"You shouldn't be here."

 

The voice cut through my thoughts, grounding me in the present. I lifted my head.

A man stood near the lift.

He looked young, but there was something in his demeanor that made him seem older. More composed. His black hair was neatly parted, revealing just a hint of his forehead. His hazel eyes are cool, unreadable, were locked onto me with quiet intensity.

Expressionless.

I'd seen that look before. That sharp, calculating stillness people wore when they carried too much knowledge. He had the air of someone who expected to be listened to.

A doctor.

Of course.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. My fingers curled around the IV pole. I was ready to turn away, slip back into my ward before anyone made a fuss.

But then he moved.

With calm, deliberate steps, he walked toward me, closing the distance effortlessly. I froze, my grip tightening on the pole.

Before I could come up with an excuse for why a patient like me was out here, his hand reached forward, steadying the IV stand, as if keeping me from leaving just yet.

He looked down at me, and suddenly, I was painfully aware of the height difference.

Compared to him, I felt small. Like a child caught sneaking out past bedtime. And I probably looked like one, too, especially since I had lost so much weight.

His gaze stayed on me, unreadable as ever.

"Which ward are you in?" he asked, voice calm but firm. "I'll take you back."

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for those leaving kudos ♡

Chapter 2: Mental Illness

Summary:

"No. Withdraws rather than reacts. Gets distressed when her condition is brought up."

Zayne peered through the small glass panel in the door, his gaze settling on the patient's bed. The young woman he had found at the balcony with the IV pole earlier was finally back where she was supposed to be. She hadn't resisted when he brought her back. Hadn't said much at all.

Patients slipping out at odd hours wasn't uncommon.

"I'm sorry for the trouble, Dr. Zayne."

He turned at the voice. Shanda, third-year RN, her nametag pinned neatly to her scrubs. She was assigned to the medical-psychiatric ward, where patients required both medical treatment and mental health stabilization. Some were here because long-term illness had chipped away at their will to fight. Others because they had tried, in one way or another, to leave this world entirely.

Zayne shook his head. "It's fine." His gaze flicked back to the woman. "What's her case?"

Shanda shifted the digital tablet in her hands, tapping a few times. "Admitted three months ago. Suicide attempt. MDD with comorbid anxiety." Her tone was clinical but not unkind. "Prescribed fluoxetine daily, lorazepam as needed. Therapy is scheduled, but adherence is poor."

Zayne exhaled quietly. The woman lay still, her silhouette softened by the dim light. "Any history of aggression?"

Shanda shook her head. "No. Withdraws rather than reacts. Gets distressed when her condition is brought up."

Zayne's fingers skimmed his jaw. He wasn't her doctor, and this wasn't his department, but something about the way she had wandered all the way to the end of the hallway... It hadn't felt aimless. It had felt intentional.

"No aggression..." His gaze flicked back to her unmoving form. " He noticed the shadows under her eyes, the way exhaustion clung to her like a second skin. "Is she experiencing Insomnia?"

Shanda sighed, adjusting her grip on the tablet. "Third time now," she muttered, frustration threading through her voice. "And it's always the same. I find her at the balcony, just... staring at the sky, like she's waiting for something." She tapped the screen again. "Her eating habits are getting worse too. She barely touches her meals."

Zayne's gaze lingered on the glass panel, listening to the nurse. He glanced toward the bed not far from the young woman. Another woman in her mid-fifties lay motionless, her chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. He had just come from the Cardiothoracic Surgery Department; his presence here had nothing to do with psychiatric cases. One of his former surgical patients had been transferred to this ward due to complications from a chronic illness, and he had wanted to check on her before heading home.

Shanda followed his line of sight before shifting her attention back to him. "You're here for Mrs. Jones, right?"

She tucked the tablet under her arm. "We see cases like hers a lot. Patients with chronic conditions who end up here because their mental health starts declining. It's not just the body that gives out, you know?"

Zayne nodded. "Her heart's holding up, but long-term illness wears people down in ways most don't realize. Stress, isolation... they take a bigger toll than people think."

Shanda hummed in agreement. "She doesn't say much. Just stares at the ceiling most of the time."

Zayne observed Mrs. Jones in silence before letting out a quiet breath. "I'll check on her tomorrow. Maybe she'll talk to someone she recognizes."

 

 

---

 

 

It was early afternoon.

 

The quiet hum of the ward surrounded me, punctuated by the occasional murmur of voices. I turned my head, taking in the scene around me. Most of the other patients weren't alone, a mother smoothing down her daughter's blanket, a sister holding her sibling's frail hand. Whispered words exchanged in voices thick with something I could barely recognize anymore.

 

Warmth. Reassurance.

 

Family.

 

A breath caught in my throat, something twisting deep in my chest.

 

I still remembered the moment everything shattered.

 

The Nexuss Factory.

 

A sprawling labyrinth of steel and smoke, it was the beating heart of Linkon City's industry. There, raw ore was forged into the foundations of skyscrapers, transport systems, and machinery that kept the world moving.

 

It was where my parents had spent most of their lives.

 

Until the explosion.

 

"Oh, Dr. Zayne!"

 

The voice cut through my thoughts, snapping me back to the present.

My gaze shifted, landing on the doctor I had encountered last night. He still wore that same stoic expression, his steps measured and deliberate as he made his way to the old woman's bedside, the one who always lay there, staring at the ceiling.

A woman, likely in her late thirties, straightened beside the bed, recognition flickering across her tired features. "Doctor, you treated my mother before, didn’t you?"

Gratitude softened her expression as she met his gaze. Zayne listened intently, leaning in slightly, his curiosity evident in the subtle tilt of his head. Their conversation carried a quiet weight. Something about her mother’s heart condition and how, after the surgery, she had never been the same.

I was following their conversation when a familiar voice sliced through the air, yanking my attention away.

 

"Claudia!"

 

Denise stood beside my bed, slightly out of breath, her eyes shining with relief. The sight of her, so full of life, sent warmth through my chest, something I hadn't felt in days.

"I'm so sorry! I couldn't visit yesterday!" she blurted, already reaching out to smooth down my hair, as if to reassure herself I was still here.

I barely had time to process before she launched into a flurry of words. "You wouldn't believe the day I had! Traffic was a nightmare, my boss was being a jerk!! And by the time I realized how late it was, I thought, 'Oh no, Claudia's probably already asleep, dreaming of something way better than this place!' "

She paused then, her teasing smile faltering just slightly as her eyes searched my face.

"Anyway! You should be mad at me. I deserve it. Look at me with disappointment. Go on, make me suffer." She clutched her chest dramatically. "Punish me for my sins."

I let out a breath, something resembling a laugh escaping as my gaze met hers. I forced a smile, though it barely reached my eyes.

 

You're right, Denise. I'm trying to leave this place.

 

 

 

Notes:

Disclaimer: I am not in the medical field. All comes from my experiences and my best effort in checking information. Do correct me if I put anything wrong.

Chapter 3: Frustration

Summary:

“Would you take me to a fun place?”

Denise held out the spoon toward me, a playful gleam in her eyes. I sighed but opened my mouth anyway, letting the warm oatmeal settle on my tongue. It was thick, smooth, with the familiar chewiness of oats softened in milk. The mashed bananas gave it a creamy sweetness, while bits of strawberry added a tart contrast. A faint drizzle of honey rounded it all out, leaving behind a lingering warmth.

Denise watched me chew, clearly enjoying herself. "You know," she mused, "you were the one obsessed with making your own oat recipes. Remember? You shoved your phone in my face, saying, 'Denise, I love oats now! Look at these TikTok recipes. You can mix in anything like fruit, yogurt, nuts, even chocolate!' "

She scooped up another spoonful, still grinning.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, well. I hope I get well soon so I can make you some oatmeal."

Denise chuckled, her fingers brushing through my hair. "Forgive me. I was just messing with you."

Her playful tone remained, but her gaze lingered on me for a second too long. I saw the faint downturn of her lips, the way her eyes scanned my face. The face that had thinned out over the past months. My once plump cheeks were gone, replaced by sharper angles, my skin pale and dull under the harsh hospital lighting. Denise’s smile softened, but there was something fragile behind it.

Her hand dropped, but she quickly forced a smirk. "...But honestly, I do like seeing your sullen face. It’s funny."

Before I could throw back a retort, her phone vibrated against the tray table, breaking the moment.

She exhaled sharply. "Ugh. My coworker." Her fingers clenched briefly around the phone before she lifted it. "Probably something about the damn register again."

I hummed in sympathy. Being a cashier at a grocery store wasn’t exactly a dream job, and Denise had plenty of horror stories to prove it. Customers who left their carts abandoned mid-checkout. People who fumbled through their wallets for coins, taking their sweet time to find the exact change even when the line stretched endlessly behind them. And of course, the register itself has glitching, shorting totals, or refusing to open when she needed change.

She groaned, dragging a hand through her hair. "If this is another ‘Help, the register’s broken, what do we do?’ call, I swear I’m quitting."

I arched a brow. "No, you’re not."

Denise exhaled dramatically but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah, yeah. You got me."

She lingered for a second before pushing herself up. "Sorry, Claudia. I’ll be back soon, okay?"

I nodded. "Go be the hero the cash register desperately needs."

She snorted, ruffling my hair on her way up. "You’re impossible."

Phone in hand, she turned away, her expression shifting as she answered. Her voice instantly duller, as if the moment work called, it pulled the life right out of her.

And just like that, the warmth she carried with her was gone, leaving only the lingering sweetness of honey and strawberries on my tongue.

 

 

---

 

 

I was bored. Really bored. Even after flipping through the book Denise had given me, Psycho-Cybernetics by Maxwell Maltz. I felt the same dull emptiness pressing in. She’d insisted I needed it, that it would help me rebuild my confidence and find hope again.

I had only read a few pages, just enough to make me question my own thought patterns. The book talked about self-image, how the mind functioned like a machine, constantly adjusting based on the beliefs we fed it. Every sentence felt dense, packed with ideas that made my head heavy.

Now, I was holding it loosely against my chin, flipping through random pages without really reading. I turned onto my side, then back again, restless. I tapped the book against my palm, sighed, and accidentally let it slip from my fingers.

It landed with a dull thud beneath the hospital bed.

I stretched my neck out from the bed, scanning the floor for the book when a voice cut through the quiet.

 

"Looking for this?"

 

My gaze drifted to his long white coat, the fabric crisp and perfectly tailored to his tall, lean frame. As my eyes trailed upward, they landed on the nametag pinned neatly to his chest.

Dr. Zayne

Up close, he was even more striking. A small face, sharp jawline, and hazel eyes that caught the light just right. His silver-framed glasses added to his quiet intellect, but it was his skin that made me pause. Flawless, smooth, almost unreal under the harsh hospital glow. There was something effortless about the way he carried himself, confidence woven into every movement.

I reached for my book, but before I could take it, he reads:

 

"Looking at the hourglass on his desk, he had an inspiration. Just as only one grain of sand could pass through the hourglass, so could we only do one thing at a time."

 

I looked up, confused. Our eyes met.

 

"That’s what Dr. Gilkey said. The lessons of the hourglass."

 

I nodded unconsciously, feeling the Super Mega Embarrassment. I had no idea what he was reading about. I had only skimmed the book.

Noticing my expression, he smiled, a rare contrast to his usual stoic face.

"How are you feeling, Claudia?" His voice was soft, though there was still that faint robotic precision to it.

Wait… he knows my name?

"H-how do you..." My voice faltered, but I stopped myself, unsure if I should care about him knowing my name.

He leaned in slightly, slipping the book onto my lap with an easy motion.

"Claudia, I want you to focus on recovering. You want to get out of here, don’t you? Then focus on that one thing. No more going to the balcony, no more wandering. Just take it one step at a time. You’ll be out of here before you know it."

I looked at him, unsure of what to say. It felt hard, too hard. People always told me the same thing: to be strong for myself. But deep down, I knew the truth. I was the one who had to do the work. Nothing would change if it didn’t come from within me.

Dr. Zayne’s gaze lingered on me, and before I could stop myself, I said, “When I finally get out of here... Can you help me with something?”

He raised an eyebrow, a silent question in his look.

I didn’t know when the determination had crept in, but the words slipped out before I could stop them. Maybe it was the medication, the lack of sleep, or just the frustration of hearing the nearly same advice over and over.

“Would you take me to a fun place?”

I hadn’t really meant to ask him for a favor. It was more of a pushback, a way to challenge him, to counter the endless stream of encouragement and advice I am sick of. It sounded childish the moment it left my lips, and I knew he’d think so too. No doctor had time to indulge a patient’s whims, especially not beyond the hospital walls.

And I wasn’t even his patient.

I braced myself for the dismissal, the polite refusal that would follow. But instead, something in his expression shifted, just for a moment, before he spoke.

"Alright," Dr. Zayne said, his voice calm but with a hint of something unexpected.

"If that's what you want, I’ll make time. Just make sure you’re ready to leave this place first."

I blinked, momentarily stunned. Is he serious?

 

 

Notes:

I haven't finished the book ;)

Disclaimer: I am not in the medical field. All comes from my experiences and my best effort in checking information. Do correct me if I put anything wrong.

Chapter 4: The Truth

Summary:

"Dr. Zayne... please don’t mention my mom. Just tell them I was wandering, like usual. I don’t want them to blame her."

I looked up at the clock on the wall. It was 8 PM, though the dim light of the ward made it feel much later. The soft hum of the machines around me was almost soothing, a steady presence that blended into the background. Some patients had already drifted off, their bodies slack against the beds. It seemed early for sleep, but the medication worked quickly. The sedatives pulled them under with ease, while the antipsychotics, slower in their effect, gradually quieted their minds, leaving behind a lingering heaviness.

I shifted in my bed, feeling the familiar weight of drowsiness creeping over me. The result of yet another adjustment to my medications. The doctors had been tweaking my regimen, trying to find the right balance. The pills calmed the restless hum in my mind, smoothing over the jagged edges of intrusive thoughts, but they also left me in between state: too tired to be fully awake, too aware to completely surrender to sleep.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the tile floor cold against my bare feet. My limbs felt heavy, sluggish, but I ignored it, reaching for my IV pole. The metal was cool under my fingers, a grounding sensation.

The ward was quieter now. The night staff moved through the dim corridors with practiced ease, their soft footsteps absorbed by the stillness, like the ward was wrapped in a quiet kind of peace. A few nurses passed between rooms, their movements efficient, their voices low. There weren’t many of them on the night shift, but they were watchful, tending to the patients who needed them most.

Nurse Shanda’s gaze flicked toward me as I stood. She had noticed before, how I always took my time getting up, how I tended to leave my bed at the same hour each night. It was a pattern she had seen play out again and again in the nights I had been here.

She approached, her voice careful, measured. “Do you need help getting to the bathroom?”

Her concern was quiet but unmistakable, tucked into the way her eyes traced the tired lines on my face.

I swallowed down the automatic urge to say I was fine. Instead, I tightened my grip on the IV pole and shook my head slowly.

“No, I’m okay. I just need to wash my face.”

She hesitated for half a second, then gave a small nod, stepping aside.

 

 

---

 

 

After finishing in the washroom, I wheeled my IV pole out into the hallway, heading back to my room. But just as I reached the hallway, something made me stop. 

 

A flicker of movement.

 

A figure was heading toward the ward exit, moving with quiet urgency, as if she had somewhere important to be.

At first, I only registered the familiarity of it.. the way her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, strands of black streaked with silver, like light threading through the dark. I had seen that hair before, tied just like that. But it was the clothes that made my stomach drop. A maroon T-shirt paired with khaki pants.

 

I knew that outfit. I knew it too well.

 

Mom?

 

The thought jolted through me, my breath catching. My grip on the IV pole tightened. I moved before I could think, wheeling forward, but not too fast.

The ward door to the hallway beyond was slightly ajar, an unusual sight.

Beyond the threshold, a medical assistant stood in conversation with another staff member. He had propped the door open absentmindedly, flipping through his clipboard as he answered a question.

 

A small mistake. A brief lapse in vigilance.

 

But in this place, that was all I needed.

 

I had slipped out before.

 

Each time, I had done so by moving with others, a staff member stepping through, a patient’s family leaving after a late visit. I had learned how to move in their shadow, timing it just right. My small frame made it easy to stay out of sight.

But things were different now. After I slipped out last time, they had been watching me more closely.

 

I need to be extra observant.

 

I scanned the room first. Checking. Calculating.

 

One of the nurses stood at a bedside, adjusting an IV drip for another patient. Another sat behind the counter, flipping through a file. She glanced up briefly, her gaze sweeping around the area.

I slowed my pace, my steps unsteady, as if weighed down by drowsiness, appearing to head toward my room while my thoughts remained fixed on the exit.

 

She looked away.

 

A patient in the far corner let out a restless murmur, shifting in bed. The nurse at the counter turned slightly, her attention flicking toward the sound.

 

That’s it.

 

I took a slow step forward. Then another.

 

No sudden movements. No hesitation.

 

I stayed close to the wall, keeping to the dimmest parts of the ward corridor. The IV pole rolled beside me, its wheels whispering against the floor.

 

I reached the exit.

 

One second. Two.

 

Then, before hesitation could creep in

 

I slipped through.

 

 

---

 

 

I was practically running now, the IV pole rattling beside me. The wheels stuttered over the floor, nearly tipping as I moved faster. The IV bag swung wildly, the connected tube pulling at the needle taped to my skin. Each tug sent a sharp sting up my arm, but I barely noticed.

 

Mom. It was Mom. I am certain of it. The maroon T-shirt. The khaki pants. The same outfit she has always worn to work.

 

I jerked my arm, trying to free the needle. The tape held firm. A sharp yank pain ripped through my skin as the needle tore free. Blood welled instantly, warm and slick against my wrist. I barely glanced at it.

The IV pole crashed behind me, forgotten, as I sprinted for the lift.

My breath was coming too fast, my chest tight, but I pushed forward. The hallway outside the ward, blurred at the edges of my vision.

 

Then I saw her.

 

Mom.

 

She was stepping into the lift, her back to me. The doors were sliding shut.

 

A sob tore from my throat.

 

"Mom!"

 

She didn’t turn.

 

Why? Why was she leaving me here?

 

 

---

 

 

Zayne sighed, his neck tight as he rubbed the back of it. A rushed consult and post-surgery follow-up had kept him in the Cardiothoracic Surgery Department much longer than planned. He had spent hours reviewing the results of recent surgeries and coordinating with cardiologists about complications. Although his mind was focused on patient care, he couldn't escape the pile of forms and reports that he needed to sign off.

And just as he thought he was done, a colleague in the Cardiology Department had called him in to review a patient’s ECG results, raising concerns about potential complications from a recent surgery. The consult had been rushed, but after sorting it out, he had finally wrapped everything up. By the time he left, the hospital halls were nearly empty, the night shift settling in.

Zayne walked down the quiet hallway, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness. But as he passed one of the small waiting areas, he paused.

A young woman was sitting alone on the couch, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. He took a slow step closer, his expression neutral but his eyes curious. 

"Are you alright?" he asked gently, his voice calm. He crouched down to her level, not wanting to invade her space but needing to make sure she was okay.

The woman flinched but didn’t answer. Then, as she lifted her head, recognition settled in immediately.

 

Claudia.

 

The patient from the medical psych ward.

 

Just a week ago, he had stood beside her hospital bed, picking up the book she had accidentally dropped. He had used that brief moment to ask about her well-being.

And the question she delivered, something no patient ever had asked him.

 

"Would you take me to a fun place?"

 

It had been a strange request, unexpected enough that he had actually agreed on one condition.

 

"Just make sure you're ready to leave this place first."

 

His gaze remained unreadable, but his mind was already piecing things together. Had she wandered off again? Did anyone realize she was missing? If she had slipped away unnoticed, security and the psych ward staff would be searching for her by now.

"Claudia," he said, his tone even but firm. "You're not supposed to be here."

She wiped her tears, and that’s when Dr. Zayne noticed the smear of blood on her left wrist. His gaze sharpened, tracing it to a fresh puncture site right where an IV catheter had been.

Zayne exhaled quietly, his expression unreadable as he took in the details. She wasn’t actively bleeding anymore as the streaks of dried blood told him enough.

"You took your IV out," he stated, matter-of-fact.

Claudia didn’t answer. Her fingers curled slightly, palm facing upward, as if trying to shield the top of her hand from his scrutiny.

Zayne’s eyes flicked toward the nurses' station down the hall. While it was certainly the proper place for her to receive treatment, he could see the station was busy, and the minor nature of her injury meant that the treatment could be done more efficiently elsewhere. The bleeding wasn’t severe, and panicking her further wouldn’t help.

"Come with me," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We need to clean that up before it gets infected."

 

 

---

 

 

He led her toward the supply room, pushing open the door and gesturing for her to step inside. "Sit."

Claudia hesitated for a moment, her eyes flicking between him and the door, as though debating whether to comply. She looked almost lost, a faint tremor in her hands, before finally lowering herself onto the nearby chair.

Zayne's movements were steady and deliberate as he reached for a roll of sterile gauze and antiseptic wipes from the counter. He pulled up a stool and placed the items carefully on the small table beside them. The room was silent except for the soft rustle of supplies.

"Give me your arm," Zayne said, his voice firm but gentle.

Claudia avoided his gaze at first, her eyes fixed on her hand for a long moment, fingers trembling. Then, slowly and with hesitation, she extended her arm toward him.

Zayne’s hands were steady as he took her wrist, his grip light yet firm, his touch clinical and focused. He examined the puncture wound on top of her hand, where the IV had been. It was raw and swollen, the skin around it red and inflamed. The edges appeared jagged and irritated, a clear sign it hadn’t been properly cleaned.

He paused for a moment, looking at her, his gaze assessing.

"This might sting a little," he said quietly, his voice calm and reassuring. "Try to stay still."

As he cleaned the area with the antiseptic wipe, Claudia flinched, a quick and sharp intake of breath escaping her lips. The sting made her fingers curl into her palm, the muscles in her arm tensing involuntarily.

She didn’t pull away, though. She sat still, despite the discomfort, staring at the floor, her lips pressed tightly together.

Zayne worked in silence, his hands moving with practiced precision as he cleaned the wound. Each motion was efficient, a result of years spent in surgery. When he finished, he wrapped the gauze around her wrist, his gaze briefly meeting her face.

"Did you follow someone here?" he asked quietly, his voice breaking the silence.

Claudia’s eyes unfocused, her gaze drifting down to her lap as she swallowed hard, her throat tight. "I saw my mother... She was here. She came to see me." Her voice trembled as she spoke, barely above a whisper.

Zayne paused, his brow furrowing as the words sank in. 

Claudia’s fingers twitched in her lap, her shoulders slightly hunched as she leaned into the chair, trying to make herself smaller. 

"She wouldn’t leave me here. I know it was her," Claudia continued, her voice unsteady, laced with a quiet panic. "I just… I had to follow her."

Zayne finished securing the bandage around her hand and looked at her for a long moment. There was concern in his eyes, but he quickly masked it, turning to set the supplies down on the counter. He needed to remain detached, professional, but something about the way she held herself made that impossible to ignore.

"This should hold for now," he said, his voice steady, though there was a slight hint of something softer. "But the nurses will need to check it later."

Claudia inhaled sharply, her fingers curling tighter into her lap. "It’s fine if you don’t believe me," she whispered, her voice so faint that it was almost lost in the quiet room.

Zayne was about to respond, but she spoke again before he could, her voice quick and strained, as if she couldn’t stop herself from pleading.

"Dr. Zayne... please don’t mention my mom. Just tell them I was wandering, like usual. I don’t want them to blame her." Her voice wavered at the end, her plea lingering in the air.

Claudia's eyes found his, wide and desperate, searching for any sign that he might understand, that he might protect her from the truth she couldn’t face.

 

The truth.

 

 

Zayne observed Mrs. Jones in silence before letting out a quiet breath. "I'll check on her tomorrow. Maybe she'll talk to someone she recognizes."

 

The nurse nodded, but there was something hesitant in the way she lingered, as if debating whether to say more. Finally, she exhaled softly and murmured, "I feel bad for Claudia."

 

The name made Zayne glance at her.

 

"Who's Claudia?"

 

"The girl we were talking about," she clarified.

 

"Oh."

 

There was a pause, the kind that carried weight, before she spoke again, her voice tinged with something heavier than mere sympathy. 

 

"She's struggling with grief," she admitted. "I know what it feels like to be in her place. I lost my parents too."

 

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, the memory of loss flickering in her eyes. 

 

"I can't help but feel guilty for raising my voice at her today. She didn't deserve that."

 

Her words lingered in the air, a quiet confession wrapped in guilt.

 

 

For a moment, their gazes locked.

The vulnerability in her eyes stopped him. It was raw, fragile, and something he wasn’t used to seeing. It hit him harder than he expected, a sharp pang of empathy he’d never allowed himself to feel so strongly before.

Zayne’s hand moved of its own accord, almost against his will. His fingers brushed lightly over the strands of hair that had fallen across her damp cheeks, an instinctive gesture meant to comfort, though he hadn’t meant to.

The softness of his touch lingered, and for a moment, he forgot about the walls he had built within himself.

Claudia stiffened, her gaze dropping to her lap as her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t meet his eyes, something about the sudden intimacy made her feel exposed and vulnerable.

Zayne noticed the shift, his fingers lingering in the air for a moment before lowering them slowly. His face remained neutral, but his gaze flickered with something, perhaps an unease, perhaps a realization that he had unconsciously crossed a boundary.

Shame crept in, warming his cheeks as he steadied his breath, trying to compose himself before returning to what he needed to do. He rose to his feet, his movements deliberate as he gathered the used supplies, focusing intently on the task. Anything, to avoid meeting her eyes.

"Let’s get you back to your ward. We can talk more once you’re settled."

 

 

Notes:

Disclaimer: I am not in the medical field. All comes from my experiences and my best effort in checking information. Do correct me if I put anything wrong.

Chapter 5: Avoidance

Summary:

"Keep your distance."

Steam swirled around Zayne, curling over his skin like whispered silk. Warm water cascaded down his body, gliding over every taut muscle. Beads of moisture clung to him, shimmering under the low bathroom light, catching on the hard planes of his chest before trailing down in lazy, glistening paths tracing the deep contours of his chiseled torso before vanishing into the drain.

His lean arms were marked with scars, thin and faded, each one a quiet testament to some untold past. Some were long and subtle, barely there but deep, while others were sharp and narrow, etched into the skin with precision. They followed the lines of his muscles, tracing the path of an unseen story. The water glided over them, drawing attention to the marks that lingered beneath the surface, subtle yet each scar holding its own silent meaning.

But none of it compared to the frost shrouding his right hand. His body stiffened as the cold spread up his arm, a sharp, biting pain that made him wince. He clenched his fist, fighting to ease the burn of the chill. The ice was both a blessing and a curse. His Evol, his gift, was a force he could control and yet couldn't escape. It twisted through him, punishing him whenever he felt deeply.

It was the consequence of letting anything slip past the walls he had built inside himself.

 

 

---

 

 

He slipped into a dark blue shirt and comfortable black pants before sinking onto the mattress, its dark grey fabric carrying a cool undertone. His hair remained damp from the hot shower he had taken earlier. With a sigh, he ran a hand over the back of his neck. His evol had finally settled, leaving only the fading traces of frost on his hand.

He was about to lie down, ready to sleep off the exhaustion, when his eyes fell on a picture frame. A young woman smiled back at him, seemingly in her early to mid-twenties. Her long, straight hair framed her face, bangs resting just above her grey-brown eyes. Even in the dim light of his bedroom, they seemed to shine. She was smiling, her head tilted slightly toward the man beside her in the photo. Toward Zayne himself.

It was the photo he had taken with her the first time she wore her 'hunter' uniform.

His finger traced lightly over the matte plastic covering the picture. A deep, aching emptiness filled his chest, the loss settling in with quiet intensity, as if each breath reminded him of what he no longer had.

 

His first love

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, the events from earlier still lingering in his mind.

 

 

"Dr. Zayne... please don’t mention my mom. Just tell them I was wandering, like usual. I don’t want them to blame her."

 

 

When he brushed her strands of hair away, lightly. When he tried to comfort her.

 

 

Was it actually the act of comforting himself? 

 

 

He could see the same vulnerability he had felt through Claudia's eyes, the raw and fragile thing.

 

 

Something he wasn’t used to seeing.

 

 

Or was he just used to avoiding it?

 

 

"Let’s get you back to your ward. We can talk more once you’re settled."

 

A sharp pain suddenly shot through his right hand, the cold slipping in like ice, wrapping around his fingers and quickly creeping up toward his palm. He grabbed it with his other hand, his jaw clenched as the pain flared unexpectedly.

 

"Is that ice?"

 

She leaned in, trying to get a closer look.

 

"Keep your distance." There was a tightness in Zayne's voice, barely masking the fear beneath his words.

 

Claudia stopped in her tracks, going still for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden shift in him.

 

 

He, like Claudia, couldn't face the truth. 

 

 

 

Notes:

The truth was hard to swallow; we'd rather mask it with lies.

Chapter 6: The Slipping Blues

Notes:

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains explicit references to death, self-harm (specifically involving the arms), medical procedures and terminology, grief, as well as mentions of psychiatric restraint, confinement, and emotional distress.
Reader discretion is advised.

Claudia lay on the bed, smiling up at her like always. But Denise didn’t smile back. Her eyes were fixed on the undeniable signs that Claudia was getting worse.

It wasn't just her eating habits that had never improved since her admission to the ward. Now, she was doing it again, that same thing she always turned to, whenever everything became too much.

But it wasn't about her refused to eat. This was something else entirely, something dark, something that Denise desperately wished Claudia could stop.

Her gaze hardened at Claudia’s arm, it's a grotesque mess of blue, green, purple, and yellow bruises, crawling in every direction and staining her skin from hand to shoulder like a spreading infection. Denise could still see it, the way Claudia had lashed out, slamming her arm against the wall again and again during those unbearable moments.

The memory didn’t just linger; it burned into her mind and tore her chest every time she thought about it. After the last episode, the nurses had strapped both of Claudia’s arms to the headboard as a desperate measure to kept her safe. 

She can feels the swelling from a surge of anger and helplessness in her chest, slowly breaking past the dam she'd built around her heart, slowly dipping her head as her trembling hands lifted to shield her face. 

The emotions she'd kept locked away, came out rushing as the tears slid down her cheek, as if the flood she'd been holding back had finally broke.

It didn't affect Denise when she found out Claudia was harming herself, nor when she was told Claudia would be moved to a higher-security room that's closer to the nurses' station with stricter monitoring, but it damn well affected her when she had to watch  Claudia fade further, locked behind layers of restrictions and rules, as if she were slipping away silently from her. 

Sobs slipped from her lips, reverberating through the room, unrestrained and ragged, as her shoulders quaked under the unbearable weight pressing down on her. 

"Don't cry..." Claudia's voice came out thin and strained, barely more than a whisper.

"Don't cry, Denise," she repeated, gentler now. She longed to reach out, to hold her friend, but the padded restraints held her fast, leather biting into raw skin where it had chafed too long against bone.

When Denise asked earlier how long Claudia would be restrained, the nurse answered "Just until she's stable again." Her tone was calm, detached like Claudia hadn't broken down in front of them all.

Denise sat hunched in the plastic chair, face buried in her hands, her shoulders still shaking.

The silence between them buzzed, thick with all the things they weren't saying.

"Please..." Claudia's voice cracked, each word scraping at something inside her.

"You'll hurt your eyes if you keep crying like that," she said softly, the words she used to say when Denise was crying about her stressful job. "You won't be able to see straight later."

Still, Denise didn't answer. The unbearable kept spilling from her, slow and suffocating.

Claudia tried again, her tone edged with quiet practicality. "Customers are going to notice your puffy eyes. You don't want them staring, do you?"

Denise gave the smallest shake of her head but didn't look up. 

Claudia moved slightly, causing the restraints creaked under the shift. She tried again, as if to break the tension, her voice lighter this time, almost teasing like she was looking for a way to make Denise smile. 

"You left the oatmeal container open," she said, eyeing the tray. "It's already gotten soggy like jelly soup."

She parted her lips in what might've become a smile. It was meant to be light, or even teasing but it faltered before it fully formed, trembling at the corners.

Her attempt was there but it was only thin and fragile. 

 

Claudia was trying, trying so hard, to lift the mood, if only for a moment.

 

And Denise, too, was trying, trying just as hard to hold herself together.

 

But seeing Claudia like this...

 

Still attempting to laugh, still trying to be herself... 

 

Denise bit down on her lip, hard.

 

It pains her.

 

---

 

 

Snow drifted down in hushed whispers, each flake illuminated by the dim glow of the overhead streetlights. Beyond the reinforced glass enclosing the hospital’s secured balcony, the bare branches stood motionless in the distance, dusted in white like the mind of someone slowly unraveling, folding in on itself, layer by layer, until even light struggled to get through.

That’s how Claudia changed.

Denise tilted her head back, fingertips resting lightly against the cold glass. Her gaze drifted through the transparent barrier, drawn to the sky. It was dark, endless, and alive with falling snow. Something about it stirred a memory.

Claudia had always loved the snow, but it was the sky she was most captivated by.

 

“I like looking at the sky. Whenever I do, I feel... free. Like I can send my overwhelming thoughts up there.”

 

Back then, Denise hadn’t truly understood what she meant but after she was standing here, the Claudia's favourite spot, the balcony she would've returned to, even if it meant just to break the rules.

All of it was Claudia’s way of coping with the grief. Every time she slipped away from the ward, she was just trying to escape the pain.

Denise gazed up at the sky, holding her gaze for a moment longer. She couldn’t understand what's going through Claudia’s mind, but still, she clung to hope, wishing against every reason that somehow, things would turn out better.

She couldn't lose her. Claudia was the only one of her best-to-had-ever-a-friend.

 

 

---

 

 

Zayne stood quietly before the small glass panel in the door, his hands tucked into the pockets of his white coat. His gaze lingered on Claudia. She was sleeping, her expression calm and delicate, dark wavy hair spilling across the pillow, catching the ward's soft light like strands of dusk. It was a stark contrast to two weeks ago, when he found her in distress, at place where she shouldn’t have been.

He was well aware that Claudia’s condition hadn’t improved but it only  deteriorated since her return to the ward. According to Shanda, her distress levels had escalated, with recurrent episodes of self-harm. The staff had no choice but to initiate restraint protocol to ensure her safety.

There, Nurse Shanda stood beside the bed, adjusting the IV line trailing from the metal pole to a catheter taped to a vein on the top of Claudia’s foot. With the patient's arms secured in restraints due to self-harm risks, it was the safest option.

She tapped through the screen on her tablet, updating Claudia's fluid chart and confirming the timing of the next dose.

Dr. Jim, Claudia’s psychiatrist, sat in the chair near the foot of the bed, jotting final notes into the folder resting on his lap. This wasn’t a formal therapy session, as those were reserved for daytime hours. This was his quiet observation, a preferred method with certain patients that often revealing more than structured appointments ever could.

Jim furrowed his brows slightly as he focused on documenting his observations. Approximately ten minutes earlier, Claudia had exhibited vocal activity during sleep, repeatedly calling out for her mother. Mild motor restlessness was noted particularly in her hands. It was characterized by intermittent twitching and grasping motions, suggesting involuntary attempts to reach for an absent stimulus.

Though brief, these behaviors may offer meaningful insight into her emotional state during sleep. Signs of agitation and longing could indicate unresolved psychological distress or unmet emotional needs, offering a glimpse into internal conflicts not readily expressed during conscious interactions.

He capped his pen and rose quietly, careful not to scrape the chair against the floor.

"I'll check her again in the morning," He murmured to Shanda. She gave a small nod without looking up from the chart, her focus fixed on the monitor's glow.

Jim stepped toward the door, reaching for the handle with practiced ease, then paused. 

His eyes locked on a familiar figure in a white coat, on the other side of the glass. 

The psychiatrist gave a small, surprised smile, pulling the door open a little wider as he stepped into the hallway.

"I figured it was you," Jim said, his tone light, keeping his voice low to respect the quiet of the ward. "Didn't expect to see a cardiac guy roaming the psych unit at this hour."

Zayne's lips parted, but no words came. He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the greeting. His usually composed demeanor faltered, just for a moment.

Jim chuckled, sensing the tension and easing it with a grin. "Relax, I'm just messing with you," he added. He knew Zayne from their time together in medical school, so the light teasing came naturally.

Zayne blinked, then exhaled quietly, his gaze dropping momentarily. It was the closest thing to a smile he was willing to offer.

Jim leaned casually against the wall, his tone softening. "You're here to check on my patient?" he asked. "Heard you were the one who found her outside the Cardiology Department the other night. I appreciate that, buddy."

"I just wanted to make sure she's alright."

Jim nodded slightly. “I actually meant to catch you the day after it happened,” he said. “Figured we could talk. But then again…” A faint glimmer of amusement touched his face. “A chief cardiac surgeon isn’t exactly the easiest person to pin down.”

Zayne gave the faintest hint of a smile.

Jim's expression softened. He studied him for a moment, then lowered his voice. "Did she say anything to you? Anything I should know?"

The questions made Zayne’s jaw tighten subtly as he avoided eye contact. He blinked, his gaze unfocused and distant. Something shifted in his eyes like a memory rising quietly to the surface.

Jim noticed the hesitation, the way Zayne’s shoulders subtly tensed, the crease deepening between his brows. His eyes kept moving, avoiding focus, as if he were trying to dodge something stirring quietly beneath the surface.

It was barely there, but to someone trained to notice, It was enough.

Discomfort. Conflict. Restraint.

"Zayne?" Jim asked gently. "You alright?"

He held his gaze, his tone steady. “I’m not speaking to you as her doctor right now. I’m speaking as someone trying to help her heal. Even the smallest thing you noticed or heard.. it could be useful in guiding her therapy. It could make a difference.”

He gave him space, not pressure. "You were the one who brought her back. That means something. And if she said anything to you... that means even more."

Zayne’s fingers ran across his face as he withdrew his hand from his pocket, the motion subtle but deliberate. His jaw clenched in response.

"She didn’t want me to mention her mother," he finally said, his voice quiet but steady. "She asked me to say she was just... wandering. She didn’t want anyone to blame her mother for it."

Jim listened closely, his face unreadable as Zayne’s words settled in the space between them.

“…She was trying to protect her mother,” Jim murmured, there's a quiet note of understanding in his tone. “That says a lot about her.”

“Has anyone from her family visited?” Zayne asked, his voice calm but purposeful. He wasn’t just asking. He needed to know. Claudia had only ever spoken about her mother, and that silence around anyone else made him wonder.

Jim's response was quiet, the words weighed down by the truth. "She doesn't have any siblings. No record of extended family. If there’s anyone else, they haven’t come forward. But there’s a friend who visits once or twice a week, without fail. She’s been the only consistent presence in Claudia’s life lately."

Zayne gave a small nod, acknowledging that. “That friend… must mean a lot to her.”

“She does. Claudia talks about her sometimes. Never in detail, but enough to know she’s someone important.”

Zayne’s gaze lingered, thoughtful. “And her parents?” he asked quietly. “I know she lost them, but… what actually happened?”

Jim’s gaze grew somber, his words deliberate and weighted. "The Nexuss factory," he said, a heaviness settling in his tone. "It happened six months ago. You probably saw it in the news." His expression shifted, shadowed by memory, the lines around his eyes tightening.

He paused, drawing in a slow breath.

"Hundreds of workers were on shift that day," he said, his voice softer now. "At first, they thought it was a gas leak, but the explosion... it was too violent. The blast radius was way too wide for that. The first responders suspected something was off right away. When forensics got involved, they confirmed it wasn’t an accident." His expression tightened. "Someone had planted a bomb near the fuel storage tanks. The investigation is still ongoing, but most of it’s classified. No one’s been charged yet."

A heavy silence settled between them. Jim didn’t meet Zayne’s eyes for a moment, his gaze distant.

"Twenty-seven people died that day. Claudia’s parents were among them. Her father died at the scene. Her mother was brought here, to this hospital… but she didn’t make it. She passed away two days later from her injuries."

The weight of Jim’s words took hold. Zayne's gaze dipped to the floor, not just out of shock but because a memory had resurfaced. It was sharp and clear. Akso Hospital had been a battlefield that week, the ICU stretched to its limits, overrun with victims and sirens wailing without end.

He remembered the chaos of triage, the frantic race to stabilize, the blur of blood and machines. He fought to save those with ruptured aortas and pericardial tamponade, spending hours in the OR, using every ounce of his skill to buy them a few more minutes or maybe even hours.

He was saving lives, all while barely having time to learn their names.

But now, realizing Claudia’s mother might have been one of those patient...

 

It felt like a punch to the gut.

 

He faltered, the weight of it sinking in deeper than he anticipated. Slowly, his eyes lifted, drawn to her still figure through the glass.

There, she looked so small and fragile against the stark white sheets, as if the bed might swallow her whole. She lay completely still, unaware of the conversation happening just beyond her door.

Zayne took a moment, then broke the silence, his voice quieter than before. “…That’s heartbreaking"

Jim nodded solemnly, his expression heavy with the memory. After a moment, he sighed.

"Claudia never really recovered from it," Jim said, his tone laced with concern. "Her grief went beyond just emotional pain... it quickly began to affect her mental health. Her friend found her unconscious with a bottle of pills in her hand. By the time paramedics got there, she was in critical condition. They brought her straight here, for her own safety."

Zayne took a moment to process everything Jim had shared. The silence between them lingered as they both watched the young woman who had lost so much.

 

 

Chapter 7: Dreams and Realities

Notes:

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains references to passive suicidal ideation, self-harm and heavy words.
Reader discretion is advised.

Nurse Shanda took the silver tray that had been placed on the overbed table. My eyes lingered on her brown hair, neatly tied in a bun, and the way her scrubs looked clean and fitted from behind. Her walk was brisk with purposeful steps, seemed like she wanted to finish the task quickly. She obviously had a list of other patients to tend to, not just me.

My mind lingered on the meal I had forced down earlier. The usual hospital fare consists of dry chicken thigh, watery broth, and a single slice of bread. They mirrored the cold, impersonal atmosphere of the ward itself. The chicken, overcooked and tinged with a dull gray, lacked any warmth or tenderness, like it had forgotten it was meant to comfort. The broth was lifeless as the pale walls around me, and the bread, cold and crumbly, felt like a leftover from someone else's forgotten table.

It all looked rather sad. An uninspiring plate that didn’t just fail to nourish, it almost resisted the idea of being eaten. As I stared at it, even the act of lifting a spoon felt like too much. But somewhere beneath the heaviness, a quiet voice reminded me I had to try. I had to eat.

Not for pleasure, not even for survival, but because it was the first step to reclaiming something in me.

 

I needed to be strong.

Not just for myself,

but for someone who's still holding on to me.

 

Denise

 

I remembered how Denise's voice trembled yesterday, thick with desperation and laced with fear. Her eyes were swollen, the skin around them puffy and tender, stained red as if they hadn't caught a break from crying. There was an ache in them, the kind that doesn't come just from tears, but from the weight of the hurt itself.

 

"Claudia, I'm begging you, please.. just be strong, for me..."

 

I felt horrible. Worse than horrible. I was hurting my best friend while I was hurting myself. I was drowning in these agonizing, unbearable feelings, yet I let others feel it too. I never realized how much I was hurting her or everyone else around me, how much I was burdening them all.

 

"I don't want to lose you.."

 

She said those words. The truth is she didn't want to lose me, yet I was here, trying to lose myself right in front of her, even though I knew damn well what it felt like to lose someone.

 

How it crashes your soul, leaves a hollow in your chest. It's like a depth that pulls you to the edge.

 

You look alive, but feel empty inside. You're living, but only functioning outside.

 

No, I don't want her to feel it. I don't want her to experience it.

 

Earlier, I managed to finish my food, at least a little. I got through the flavourless soup I’ve always disliked and ate my chicken down to the bone. I didn’t touch the bread, but still, it felt like progress.

I just have to keep going.

 

"Claudia, I don't know what you're thinking, but out of all those thoughts in your head, I want you to just focus on one thing. Please. I want you to start eating properly. That's all I ask."

 

That's what Denise said.

 

And somehow, I recalled something Dr. Zayne once told me.

 

"Claudia, I want you to focus on recovering. You want to get out of here, don’t you? Then focus on that one thing. No more going to the balcony, no more wandering. Just take it one step at a time. You’ll be out of here before you know it."

 

They both said the same word.

 

Just one word.

 

Focus.

 

That’s when it hit me. 

 

They all had been saying that but I went blind to it, deaf to the sound.

Shielding myself, retreating into a madness over so many things.

 

I had been focusing on the wrong things.

When I could’ve focused on getting better.

 

And I chose not to.

 

Because I made myself the slipping blue,

Lingering just outside the hue.

 

I turned my head as far as the strap would allow. The window across the room was masked in black-tinted film, smudging the outside into a blur of dim light and distant melancholy. The sky was hidden from me, but in my mind, I can still see it.

 

It was vast, aching and endless.

 

I could still feel the night air from that memory, cool against my cheeks, threading through my hair like a quiet kind of mercy. My feet had been bare on the concrete. The trees above me had snowed in silence. The stars didn’t speak, but they listened.

 

I was never trying to run..

But they see me as running away.

Kill myself?

The thought almost made me laugh.

I just wanted to float… to leave from this place.

Why can't they understand?

 

The blue gown they gave me, too bright beneath the humming fluorescent light, clung to my body like a question no one dared to ask. 

 

I made myself the slipping blue. Not a threat. Just the confusion the world didn’t know how to hold.

 

Refusing

to see the view,

A dream,

that never seemed true,

A reality,

I chose to skew.

 

Deep in my heart, I know I’m confused, but somehow, I can feel that things will get better.

Maybe not today, but there’s always tomorrow.

 

 

Notes:

I'm sorry I have to make it as slow-update now, priorities got in my way but I promise it's still be on-going :D
Pls take care of your health, mentally and physically.

Chapter 8: The Piano

Summary:

"And I'll do the same for you."

The piano stood against the white wall, its black lacquered body catching the last threads of sunlight that slipped through the sheer curtains. It was tall and square, sturdy without looking heavy. The corners were worn smooth with age and the brass pedals had dulled to a warm glow.

I ran my fingers lightly over the keys, the familiar touch of the ivory cool beneath my fingertips.

The piano responded with a series of soft, bright notes, their sound clear and clean. Each one ringing out with a subtle, ringing tone before quickly fading into the still air. The faintest sound of hammers meeting strings could be heard, a soft click, as the keys returned to their resting position.

In two hours, I would be at my client's house, but for now, I rehearsed alone, letting the melodies settle into my hands. As I was playing the piano, the sound of the living room door opening reached me, followed by hurried footsteps I recognized instantly.

"Mom? Why are you here? I thought your lunch break wasn't until one." I glanced at the digital clock in the living room. It was still early.

I let my hands fall from the keys and lifted my head. She was just a few steps away. Her movement stopped at once, her attention fixed on me.

She smiled, but her eyes flickered with a restlessness she couldn't hide. She ran her fingers through her hair, quickly smoothing the silvering strands back from her ear and tucking them behind it.

"It’s nothing, sweetie. The bakery messed up the cake, so they’re giving me a new one. I’m just going to check it out."

Ah right, it's mom and Dad's anniversary.

I was about to speak, to ask her more, when she abruptly left the living room. I quickly got up and followed her down the hallway, watching as she entered her room. 

Mom rummaged through the desks, the soft thud of drawers slamming and the rustle of objects and papers filling the room.

I stood in the bedroom doorway, my gaze following her every movement. She seemed completely absorbed in her search, sighing with frustration as she muttered, "Where is it?" repeatedly. 

"Mom, what are you looking for?"

She finally pulled something out, a small pink slip of paper, the receipt. "Got it!" she exclaimed, her face lighting up with a smile that chased away the tension from earlier.

"Mom, I can go pick up the cake," I said gently, stepping forward until I stood in front of her. I had the time and I could tell she'd left work just to take care of this. No wonder she looked so rushed.

She shook her head with that same forced smile and gently brushed my hair aside, like she always did. "Aren't you seeing a client today? What's his name again... Mr. Rafayel, right?" 

"Yeah, but not until later. I still have time."

"It's fine, dear. No need to trouble yourself."

"Mom..."

"Just don't forget to text me when you get there, okay?"

She turned and walked away, the soft jingle of her car keys fading with each step.

 

I stood there, watching her go.

 

The maroon T-shirt, slightly wrinkled and the khaki pants brushed softly with each movement. The outfit she wore almost every day, one I had long registered as Mom's work outfit.

I saw it so often, I stopped noticing. But that morning... somehow, my eyes lingered just a little longer.

It was ordinary, just like most days, watching her pace back and forth, forgetting something or tending to a task before heading out to work.

I didn't know the ordinary things she did, the way she moved and those little routines would be all I had to hold onto. 

I didn’t realize the small things, the ones so easy to overlook would be the ones to stay with me.

That they were the last pieces of her I'd ever see  alive.

 

 

---

 

 

The soft blue glow of Zayne's laptop was the only light in his dim, minimalist office. He typed steadily, occasionally adjusting the glasses perched on his nose. The silver-rimmed glasses were essential for his nearsightedness, something he never worked without.

The door eased open. A woman stepped in, arms full of files. Zayne looked up as her footsteps approached.

"Afternoon, Dr. Zayne. Here are the reports you asked for," said Nurse Yvonne as she stepped forward, extending the neatly stacked files toward him with both hands.

Dr. Zayne adjusted his glasses, his gaze shifting from Yvonne to the files in her hands. His mind was already sorting through the likely contents. With a firm nod, he took the reports from her.

"Thank you, Yvonne," he said, his tone measured and efficient. "Make sure the latest updates from the cardiology unit are included as well."

Yvonne nodded, but before she could leave, Dr. Zayne glanced up. "One moment."

"Do I have anything scheduled around six?" he asked, his gaze steady on hers. He'd been meaning to visit Claudia. He wanted to check on her progress, if time allowed.

Yvonne paused, her brow briefly furrowing in thought. "You're free then, Doctor. Your evening consult isn't until seven."

Zayne gave a short nod, his eyes returning to the screen as his fingers resumed typing. "Good."

Yvonne responded with a quiet nod of her own. "I'll step out now, then."

With that, she turned and made her way out, the soft click of the door closing behind her.

Zayne leaned back in his chair, the movement slow as his shoulders dropped. He sank into the seat, his posture loosening with the kind of fatigue that only followed hours of high-stakes work. He slouched now, in the way a disciplined body allows to reward itself after holding tension too long.

He laced his fingers together and stretched his arms overhead, feeling the satisfying pull along his spine and shoulders. These quick stretches were his way of staying functional between shifts, easing the strain that placed on his lower back and shoulders.

As his thoughts drifted to Claudia, Zayne’s mind inevitably circled back to the Nexuss Factory case. Dr. Jim’s words surged to the surface.

 

"Someone had planted a bomb near the fuel storage tanks. The investigation is still ongoing, but most of it's classified. No one's been charged yet."

 

Zayne’s fingers settled on a printed article spread across his desk, the headline in bold: Firestorm at Nexuss: 27 Lives Lost in Seconds. Just beneath it, a photo captured the calm before catastrophe. Rows of fuel tanks stood undisturbed, moments away from destruction.

The image revealed the tanks intact and orderly. The fuel storage sat on the far eastern edge of the property, slightly downhill and seemingly isolated, though not without protection. Cylindrical and industrial-grade, the tanks were coated in matte silver to deflect heat. Each rose nearly two stories high, spaced just enough to meet safety regulations, yet still close enough to trigger a devastating chain reaction.

Zayne studied the layout with a methodical eye. The report indicated that everything was covered, from reinforced fencing and surveillance coverage to seismic detectors. On paper, the facility appeared impenetrable.

Yet someone had breached it, and the familiarity of the breach unnerved him.

 

Could this be an inside job?

 

He had dealt with similar failures before. At the hospital, during the OR-5 tampering case, an individual with authorized access had bypassed multiple security layers without setting off a single alarm. It served as a reminder that even the most secure systems were vulnerable from within.

The thought wasn’t driven by instinct but by experience. However, experience alone couldn’t substantiate the claim.

He would wait for the data to confirm. Until then, he would stay focused and be prepared when the facts came to light.

Those victims. Claudia. He had made it a point to visit her as often as he could, offering whatever support he could for her recovery. Still, the feeling lingered.

That nagging sense that it wasn't enough, that there was something more he should do.

Sometimes, he caught himself wondering if he was overstepping a boundary between doctor and patient.

 

That uncertainty annoyed him more than he'd admit.

 

 

---

 

 

I kept sitting up and lying down, not knowing what to do. I lay down, then got up again.

 

Both arms raised, now free from the restraints.

 

Of course, I was happy. The nurses and doctors finally trusted me enough to take them off. After days of lying here, strapped to the headboard, while showing some improvement in how a patient should behave, I guess they figured I was no longer a "bad" patient.

I still remembered what the nurse had said when she finally removed the straps.

 

 

"You're showing improvement. Your behavior's more stable, your eating habits have improved."

 

Her voice had been calm. Too calm.

 

"As long as you stay in control, we won't need the restraints again."

 

 

The memory of it made my eyes roll inwardly.

Because here, It's not about keeping you safe from yourself. It's about making you're not a damn threat to them.

With my hands finally free, I had a bit more freedom. I leaned toward the overbed table hovering just above my lap and let my fingers glide across its smooth surface.

At first, they moved slowly, each finger twitching slightly, unsure of where to go. Then, the index finger was the first to shift, followed by the others as they began to dance, tapping gently, like I was playing a piano in a place I could only feel.

I hummed a song, just something random. It formed on its own when my mind drifted too far from the present. No melody, no lyrics. Just a sound to fill the space.

I missed playing my piano.

 

"You have a unique way of entertaining yourself."

 

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a familiar male voice. Too familiar. I lifted my head, my eyes narrowing on him before I quickly looked away. 

My cheeks started to warm. Why the heck is he here? No, scratch that, I don't care that he's here. What bothered me was that he caught me playing an imaginary piano.

He probably thought I was auditioning for a role in some dramatic hospital musical. I'd better say something before he ran off to report me and got me strapped to the headboard again. 

"Wait, um, this isn't what you think. I was just bored. It's just my way of, you know, passing time." My voice came out way too panicked to sound casual. Great job, Claudia. Really selling the "totally sane" vibe. 

Dr. Zayne adjusted his glasses and stepped a bit closer. "So, this is your strategy for passing time? Very... convenient."

"Why are you here?" I blurted out before I could slap my mouth. That sounded rude for real, but I couldn't take it back now.

I meant to ask why he suddenly made a random appearance here, because I usually saw Nurse Shanda, Dr. Jim, and a few other nurses in this room. Definitely not him. Unless I'm the one slipping away again and randomly bumped into him, like that one time on the balcony. No, two times. Wherever that was. I don't even remember.

He didn't flinch at my attitude. Instead, his eyes dropped to my hands. "Watching a patient perform on her invisible piano. That was unexpected."

"I wasn't performing," I muttered.

"I saw it."

"That was just me doing silly things."

He stared at me with an unreadable expression. This guy was too stoic for me. I couldn't tell if he was joking or being serious.

I sighed. "Please, Dr. Zayne. I swear I'm not crazy."

"You're never crazy to me, Claudia." His voice softened. "I was teasing. Sorry."

He stepped closer, lowering his head slightly to meet my eyes. "How have you been feeling lately?"

His tone had shifted, clinical now. The same voice he'd used when he treated the wound on my hand after I tore the IV out.

"Great."

"Just great?"

I held back the urge to roll my eyes in front of him, just out of respect for him being a doctor. 

"Can I see your hands?"

I nodded, giving my permission, though I wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. I extended both arms toward him. He took my wrists gently, his touch steady and deliberate. His thumbs moved lightly over my skin, careful not to press too hard on the bruised areas. His eyes traced every mark, focused as he read them. 

"The bruises haven't healed. The skin's still irritated from being strapped down too long. You'll need to take extra care. Apply a healing cream to speed up the process."

"Okay." I simply nodded.

Dr. Zayne returned my hands to me. He faced me then, offering a small smile that never quite reached his eyes.

"I apologize for my tone earlier, Dr. Zayne." The words left me before I could think. 

"It's fine." His expression was unreadable, yet somehow reassuring. Then, after a short pause, he asked, "You like playing the piano?"

That caught me off guard.

"Yeah," I said, a little hesitantly. "I was a piano tutor."

He smiled again, this time with a trace more warmth.

"That explains it. The way you tapped your fingers, it didn't look random. It looked like you knew every key."

Something tightened in my chest. My eyelids fluttered as I looked down at my lap. My fingers curled in, like they were holding onto something long gone. 

I didn't expect him to notice that.

"You okay?" Dr. Zayne's voice was low, careful. He'd caught the change in my expression and leaned in, lowering his head until our eyes met.

The space between us felt closer than before. Like he wasn't just checking on a patient, but on me.

"It's just, uh-" I laughed, suddenly feeling awkward. "I missed playing the piano. Haven't touched it in months. I'd probably forget how to play by now."

Dr. Zayne studied me for a moment. "You won't forget. Not really."

I looked up, unsure. "You think so?"

He gave a small nod. "I know a surgeon who stopped operating for nearly a year. Took on research work instead. When he returned to the OR, everything came back. His hands knew what to do."

His tone was calm, certain. "Skills like that don't just vanish. They stay with you."

One of his hands rested on my shoulder, I hadn't even noticed when it got there. "Don't think about it too much. You can always start again, bit by bit. It'll come back, with time." 

He gave a light tap, firm but gentle. "Right now, just focus on your recovery." 

Dr. Zayne's voice was calm like he meant every word. He wasn't just offering comfort but he was making sure I believed him. His eyes didn't waver, holding mine a beat longer than necessary.

My eyes flicked away from his. Why did it suddenly feel awkward?

I shifted the conversation before the awkwardness settled in too deep.

"I heard you're a surgeon," I said, glancing back at him. "But you always seem to have time to check on patients. Like Mrs. Jones. I thought surgeons were busy."

"Some people hand things off once the surgery's done. That's not how I work." He met my gaze with quiet certainty. "Taking care doesn't stop at the operating table. These are my patients. I make sure they're looked after, no matter where they end up."

His gaze softened. "And I'll do the same for you."

"No, thanks." I wish I could say that. Instead, what came out was, "Thank you." Softer and somehow it sounded genuine. 

That was unintentional. I swear.

He gave a faint smile, like he’d just silently confirmed I was now his sort-of-unofficial-but-also-kinda-official patient from the psych ward.

Great. As if one department poking around in my brain wasn't enough, now they're tagging in cardiology too.

But if it's Dr. Zayne, I don't mind. 

Chapter 9: Grief

Sunlight at noon slipped in and skimmed lightly across the windowpane. Even with the black-tinted film plastered over it, the glass still managed to catch the light, like it refused to be forgotten. A window that never opened. I never understood why they even installed it if it wasn't going to let in air. They'd sealed it up completely, maybe for privacy, or heat, or glare, whatever. If they were going to block it out, they could've at least made it cheerful. Something a little less bleak for a depressed patient. A cartoon print, maybe. 

I let out a quiet sigh at the absurdity of it all. Then slowly, I lifted my spoon and took another bite of rice. The bland little mounds sat in my mouth like nothing, just texture, no taste. Like chewing through time. This place had dulled everything, drained me dry, and left me aching to get the fuck out.

Then came the sound of the door. Soft, but sharp enough to jolt me. My hand twitched, and the spoon nearly tipped. I'd gotten used to flinching at every little thing. That's what happens when you sit in the same space for too long, listening for something, someone to break the monotony.

Was it because I was always alone?

Okay, technically, not alone. Denise and Dr. Zayne still came to visit when they could. Maybe that's why I kept looking up. Because some part of me kept hoping it was one of them.

But it was her. Nurse Shanda.

She had the water I asked for. Lunch came with apple juice instead. Because apparently someone thought that was a normal combo with chicken soup and rice. No thanks.

She caught my gaze and smiled.

The woman looks younger than the other nurses and has that big sister energy. She could be firm when I was being difficult, but it always ended with her soft voice apologizing, saying she only did it because she wanted me to get better. 

I think I understand her. She doesn't just do her job, she really gives a damn. That's rare. And I guess that's when it hit me.

Taking care of someone isn't the same as caring about them.

Most people don't know the difference. But she does.

She's been here with me since the day I was admitted, staying by my side from the "ordinary" ward to this hellish one with "no window". 

Funny how I just realized. 

She lifted a finger, tapping the corner of her lips in a soft, almost playful gesture. Her eyes held mine. Still smiling. Still waiting.

I blinked, confused. Then copied the motion. My fingers landed on the edge of my mouth.

Was there something there?

Her smile widened, lopsided now, amused by my utter cluelessness. A small shake of her head. She walked over. Sat beside me without a word. Pulled a tissue from her pocket. Reached toward my face. Effortless, like muscle memory.

"There," she said softly, dabbing at the corner of my mouth. "Got it."

I blinked. Froze a little. Her hand moved again, wiping a spot I didn’t even realize was there.

I looked down at my tray. Then back at her.

Had I been eating like that this whole time? Like I was just shoving it down?

"You've got rice everywhere, sweetie," she said with a quiet laugh. "You're going at it like it's a race."

Heat rushed to my face. I looked down. Let out an awkward laugh. My spoon sank deeper into the leftover rice. "Guess I was just... focused."

Zero response. No comeback. Just the desire to fall into the floor and dissolve.

Then her hand on my shoulder. Her arm slid around me, slow, pulling me just close enough that I didn’t flinch. Eased into a gentle side hug. Her other hand came in, soft pats on my back.

"You've been trying really hard," she said softly. "I've noticed your progress in getting better. And I just want you to know... I'm proud of you."

She's proud of me? Someone else sees the effort, but I can't even do that for myself.

"Nurse Shanda..."

Honestly, none of it mattered now. Not more than this bone-deep urge.

"I want to get out of here."

She blinked. "You want to leave," she repeated softly. Like she needed to make sure.

I nodded. Her hand stayed. Didn’t pull away.

"I know..." Her thumb brushed lightly over my sleeve, almost absentminded. "You've come a long way... and when the time is right, I believe you'll get there."

I wanted her to be clear. What day. How long. Something. But I didn’t ask. I already knew, she couldn’t. I set the spoon back. Sat up straighter. Shanda noticed the shift. Her arms slowly pulled away.

"Do you want some water?" she asked gently.

"Yeah."

She reached over. Grabbed the bottle. Twisted it open. Placed it into my hand.

"Thank you." A slow sip. The coolness grounded me, just for a second. There was more. Sitting behind my ribs. Waiting. With her calm, her warmth, it felt safe enough to try.

I lowered the bottle. Set it aside. Folded my hands in my lap.

"I want to be there," I said. "I really do. But sometimes it's hard."

My voice faltered, but I kept going.

"I get these waves of grief. It just... shows up out of nowhere. Like it's been hiding behind me the whole time. Sometimes it pulls back for a while, and I think I'm okay. Then it crashes. And I'm right back there again, feeling everything. All of it."

My fingers curled into the fabric of my hospital gown. I stared down at them. The tremble in my breath gave me away.

Shanda didn't say anything.

Then, slowly, she reached for my hand. Not all at once. Just enough for the warmth of her fingers to wrap gently around mine.

"Claudia," she said, barely above a whisper. "It's fine."

A gentle squeeze. Quieting the tremble.

"I know the waves hit hard," she said, her voice calm. "Feels like they'll never stop coming. But you're still moving, even when it doesn't feel like it. You're still trying... and that's something to be proud of."

I didn't look up. Kept my eyes on our hands. Her thumb brushed the back of mine. Slow. Trying to smooth the ache.

"I was about your age when I lost my parents..." she murmured.

"I remember how it swallowed everything. How grief filled every corner. Too much. So much it made us believe pain and suffering were all that was left. I know... but sweetheart, there's something sacred in the pain. Something that teaches, even as it breaks."

A pause. "The wisdom."

"The knowledge you can gain from it," she said softly. "When you finally pull something from all that pain... you'll find a part of yourself you didn't know existed. You'll discover the strength that was buried underneath it. And if you keep learning, it’s almost like a superpower, it helps you see people more clearly, understand their hearts better. You'll become gentler, not weaker. More empathetic, because now... you know."

"And this grief… this sadness, what if that's the wisdom? It shows us what truly mattered, right? Without it, how would we know to cherish the joyful moments? Or why the little things with the people we love suddenly mattered once they're gone?"

"Sweetheart..."

"What you're feeling now… it's all valid. Feel it. Understand it. Let the waves hit. What can we do? We can't undo the past… we can only take the knowledge it gives us."

"Like grief teaches us what matters. You care for them. You love them. You wouldn't feel this deeply if it didn't start with the deep love you had for them."

 

 

---

 

 

The deep love I had for them.

Claudia finally met her eyes. Just a flash. Then down to their joined hands. The tears came hot. A sting climbed the bridge of her nose. That old, familiar weight settled hard against her ribs. Her throat cinched shut. Her nose prickled.

I'm gonna cry...

The memory hit. Sharp.

Eight years old. Just off the stage, first recital done. Cheeks flushed under phantom lights, fingers still trembling. Her mother beamed, tugging her father’s sleeve, urging him faster as Claudia scrambled back onto the piano bench at home, desperate to replay the piece.

The first time she’d truly made them proud. Her mother’s hands, warm, holding her tight. Pride radiating. Grateful for the gift humming in her daughter.

That warmth was ash now.

Replaced by Shanda’s hand. Still holding hers.

 

Mom, Dad...

 

I love you. I miss you. So deeply...

 

Claudia bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. Her vision swam. Tears pooled, overflowing before she could blink. She tried anyway. Futile against the crumbling edge.

Shanda’s hand remained. Anchoring. A thumb sweeping slow arcs over her knuckles.

 

280 days.

That’s how long the psych ward had held her.

The world outside?

It never moved for her. 

 

The room’s stillness mirrored her own. Thick. Laden with the unsaid.

Shanda kept brushing her hand.

A silent lifeline cast into the quiet.

 

Claudia didn’t speak.

She just… cried.

 

And beyond the silence.

Just outside their sightline.

 

A figure stood in the doorway. Watching through the glass panel.

 

One hand buried deep in his coat pocket.

The other hung loose, empty.

 

No word. No movement. His gaze fixed on the scene.

 

Claudia, shuddering.

Nurse Shanda, holding fast.

Two hands knotted between grief and solace.

 

He remained. Silent.

 

But something flickered across his face.

 

Not her presence that unsettled him.

The tears.

How they clawed at something buried within him.

 

Again.

 

Something he refused to feel.

Something nameless.

 

"Are you Dr. Zayne?"

His eyes slid, slow, deliberate, to the woman now beside him. Tall. Maybe 170-plus. Blonde hair wrestled into a messy bun, as if done in haste and abandoned.

"Yes," he said. A single nod.

She didn’t speak immediately. Just studied him. Not urgency. Interest. A slight tilt of her head. A silent question lifting her brows.

About him. 

 

 

---

 

 

The metal bench felt cold, even at noon. Tucked in the shade, the steel never seemed to hold warmth. They were hidden in a concrete alcove behind the hospital, a grudging concession to privacy, far from the ER’s harsh fluorescents and the cafeteria’s clatter. She had insisted on this spot. Needed to talk. Now.

Phone in hand, Zayne’s eyes fixed on a post-op summary: congenital heart defect repair, a 12-year-old boy with Tetralogy of Fallot. In every spare moment, he circled back to his cases, as if another review might uncover what he’d overlooked. He scanned the cardio-respiratory metrics again, searching for something that hadn’t surfaced during the last consult.

Denise’s own phone shattered the quiet.

"No, Aaron. No." Her voice was a whip-crack. She stood, pacing two tight steps on the stained concrete. "The register's already glitching. You mashing buttons is exactly how we ended up charging fifty bucks for one stalk of bok choy." A beat. Her knuckles whitened around the phone. "Do I look like IT support to you?"

Silence. Then a sigh ripped from her, a raw, frustrated sound loud enough to scatter the sparrows pecking near a dumpster.

"I get one break, Aaron. One. And I’m using it to check on a friend who…" Her gaze flicked to Zayne, still absorbed in his screen. "...never mind, not your business. Just fix the damn register, stop calling me, and tell Janice to act like she works there and actually help her damn coworker."

She stabbed the ‘end call’ button. The silence rushed back in, thick and charged. For a moment, she just breathed, staring at the phone’s black mirror reflecting her own tired eyes. Then she sat. Hard. Perched on the very edge of the bench, putting inches of cold metal between them.

He hadn’t looked up once. Just followed her out here. Said she wanted to talk about Claudia. Didn’t say about what.

Denise scrolled her dead screen. Up. Down. Aimless friction.

The question sliced the air, sudden and too loud.

"Are you close with her?"

Zayne blinked. "Sorry?"

"Claudia." Denise kept her eyes on the blank phone. "Did you two know each other before?"

He set his phone down, unsure what angle she was aiming for. Before he could respond, she answered it herself. The dry laugh scraped out. "'Cause she was talking about you like... I don’t know, like you two were a thing or something." She finally cut him a sideways glance, sharp as broken glass. "And she’s not even your patient."

"Right." His voice was flat. Toneless. The phone screen dimmed, forgotten in his lap. "She’s not."

The blankness of him, the utter, impenetrable stillness, felt like mockery. Is he doing it on purpose? That detached tone… it wasn’t just dismissive. It was an insult.

"So what’s with all the visiting?" Denise leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her voice tightening like a wire. "I can’t make sense of it. Feels hella weird. No doctor hovers like that... unless you’re getting paid? Journalists sniffing around the factory case, hungry for scraps…" She let the implication hang, sharp and poisonous. "But even then, that’d be desperate. Considering your salary—"

“I’m not here for headlines.” The words were ice shards. His phone vanished into his pocket. Conversation terminated.

Denise recoiled slightly. The sudden, cutting edge in his voice was unexpected. Dangerous.

“You’re wasting your time with those accusations,” he added. His eyes finally locked onto hers.

Cold. Arctic, fathomless cold. It shriveled something inside her chest.

But she wouldn’t buckle. Not yet. “Well, I’m curious and you’re silent.” She met his gaze, unflinching. “What do you think that leads to?"

A single, barely perceptible twitch at the hinge of his jaw. The only crack.

He stood. “You’ve got less than twenty minutes to visit your friend."

Dismissed. Like an extra printout no one asked for.

Denise stayed frozen on the bench. Shoulders rigid, lips pressed into a bloodless line. Part of her wanted to scream his name, just to see if she could shatter that perfect, frozen composure. But the cold certainty of his retreating back told her it would be useless. A waste of breath against a glacier.

"Sure," she muttered to the empty space he left behind. She hugged herself as the wind blew cold across her neck. "That’s definitely the caring, gentle doctor Claudia told me about. Stoic. Indifferent. Cold as fuck."

She watched the automatic doors sigh shut behind him, swallowing him back into the sterile, humming belly of the building. Like she’d been nothing. A transient irritation.

What a joke. 

 

 

---

 

 

The studio didn't just feel stressed. It vibrated.

Lights buzzed, restless and sharp. Assistants darted like flies sensing their final day on Earth, arms laden with props, voices a frantic whisper-yell. Stressed. Panicked. Moving with the desperate energy of people containing a celebrity meltdown.

Except the meltdown wasn't happening. It was just a photoshoot. Just him, radiating moodiness.

Rafayel. A face demanding appreciation in person. Soft features, rosy lips, sculpted perfection on a man. Eyes like glossy sunset marble, red and blue. That lavender hair, crowning his rare beauty. Face of Linkon City, absolutely.

That morning, he'd laid in bed, ceiling his only focus. No urge to paint. Weeks since a brush had touched canvas. His art gallery manager, Thomas, offered "productive" alternatives. A text. A jewellery company. Him. Modelling their new collection for some big "green campaign." 

Knowing Thomas would pester endlessly "Get out, meet people, do something." 

He'd sighed. Typed back -Fine.

That was the root of his studio attitude.

 

Click.

 

The camera framed a medium shot: face, upper body, the long chain necklace heavy with purple and red gems. They meticulously highlighted his abs, strikingly sculpted, gleaming like oiled bronze. Square and defined, like perfect bakery buns fresh from the oven. Each breath carved shadows between the ridges of muscle. Carbs would never look innocent again.

“Necklace… higher?” The photographer’s voice splintered like dry kindling.

The young makeup artist nearby trembled. Rafayel had already pinned her with a laser glare over lipstick deemed too bright.

"If it gets any higher, I'll choke. Do you want to capture me dying on camera?"

Nervous chuckles fluttered, then died instantly. Silence pressed in.

"Side profile, please?" the photographer chirped, smile bright, panic barely veiled.

Rafayel remained still. "You already have one." A dry dismissal. "Front page, Linkon News. Feel free to plagiarize."

 

Thud.

 

The assistant’s foot snagged on the lighting cable. He lurched, arms windmilling in a heart-stopping arc before his palm slapped the edge of a reflector, knuckles white as bone, tendons screaming.

Then, realizing Rafayel’s gaze was on him, he buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking silently. In his head, he was already dialing an ambulance, not for injury, but for extraction. Extraction from the unbearable humiliation of tripping in front of that gorgeous creature.

No reaction. Like nothing happened. Rafayel turned, a fractional shift. Light caressed his jawline as if fulfilling a lifelong wish. The side profile was captured, flawless.

Between flashes, his gaze flicked to his smartwatch.

 

Missed Calls: Thomas (3)

 

The photographer lowered his camera, sweat beading on his upper lip. “Just… one more look toward the window? The natural light is—”

Rafayel didn’t let him finish. The simmering disinterest that had been brewing since the first click finally tipped over, sharpened by Thomas’s constant intrusions. He didn’t sigh. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply stopped. The subtle tension that had held his perfect posture dissolved. He went utterly still, a gorgeous statue suddenly bored with its pedestal. 

His sunset-marble eyes slid from the window, past the trembling makeup artist, over the photographer’s hopeful face, and settled on the assistant, still shaken from his fall, now being dragged out for treatment. The studio lights buzzed overhead, assistants shuffled in the periphery, clutching props like talismans against his aura. Yet he was no longer part of their frantic habitat. 

"I'm done," he stated. The word wasn't loud, but it cut through the nervous energy like a blade through silk. It wasn't angry. It was final. The absolute boredom in his tone was more devastating than all their frantic, whisper-yelled shouts.

Without deigning to glance at anyone, he raised a hand and began unhooking the ostentatious necklace. The purple and red gems, suddenly cheap against his skin, dangled limp between thumb and forefinger. A jewellery stylist fumbled forward like a dropped puppet to snatch it from his grasp.

"B-but Mr. Rafayel," the photographer stammered, the bright smile finally crumbling into dust. "We haven't got the full campaign suite! The close-ups on the emerald pieces, the—"

Rafayel flicked his gaze towards him. It wasn't the laser glare he'd given the makeup artist. This was colder. Emptier. The look you'd give a buzzing fly you couldn't be bothered to swat. "Did I stutter?"

He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned on his heel, the movement fluid and dismissive. His gleaming abs, those perfect ‘bakery buns,’ were reduced to nothing more than the view of a retreating back as he strode toward the dressing room, indifferent to the sea of panicked faces. Assistants practically flung themselves out of his path. The same jewellery artist, caught mid-step, stumbled backward, almost tripping over the cursed cable.

He vanished through the dressing room door without a backward glance. The heavy door clicked shut behind him, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden, stunned silence.

The studio didn't vibrate anymore. It just... deflated. The frantic energy collapsed like a punctured balloon. Assistants stared at each other, wide-eyed. The jewellery stylist scooped up the discarded necklace like it was a wounded bird. The young makeup artist finally let out the sob she'd been holding, tears streaking through the foundation she'd so carefully applied.

The photographer lowered his camera all the way, eyes fixed on the closed door. The silence swelled, thicker and darker than before, suffocating with disbelief.

In the quiet dressing room, Rafayel ignored the expensive robes hanging ready, ghostly in the gloom. He slumped into the plush chair, exhaling a weary breath.

"I hate being pretentious."

The words hung in the silence, stark and unadorned. A confession to the empty room. The only truth spoken all day.

He lifted his wrist. The smartwatch screen glowed coldly in the dim light, a tiny, accusing eye.

 

Missed Calls: Thomas (11)

 

Notes:

Hey peeps, how’s it going? I apologize for the long hiatus. I had demanding priorities to focus on over the past months, which caused the delay. Added to that, I sometimes let my perfectionist tendencies take over, which makes me reconsider every plot. That takes time.

But here I am. I'll try my best to improve every chapter. Thank you for still staying ♡

~

Please. I'd love to see more comments. I want to know more.

And yep, Rafayel 👀