I thought life would simply continue like this — steady, muted, unremarkable.

Until one day, it stopped.

That day, Elliot was injured while pursuing a suspect. They said the suspect fought back and struck him in the face with a blunt object. The scene was reportedly covered in blood. Still, Elliot finished the task — stayed on his feet until his body finally gave out. He collapsed and was rushed to the hospital. The doctors later told me he’d been moving on nothing but willpower, dragging half a life behind him. By the time he was wheeled into surgery, he was already unconscious.

Elliot and I didn’t share our social circle, not really. But emergency surgery requires the consent of a legal partner, and the nurse on duty had pulled my contact information from his file.

At the time, I was wearing a black suit Ai had practically forced on me, pretending to be her partner at a black-tie gala. A chandelier above us poured warm light onto the room. Guests moved like glimmering shadows, murmuring into champagne flutes, while soft string music floated in the background. Ai had looped her arm through mine, mouthing: Don’t overthink it — he’s away on a trip. Just keep me company.

She always said things like that. Probably because she knew I’d never say no.

I stood there holding a glass of champagne, not really hearing a word the people around us were saying. All I could do was watch the bubbles rising slowly in the glass — delicate, silent, floating upward like me. Attached to someone I couldn’t have. Drifting through a place I didn’t belong.

Then the phone rang.

The champagne fizzed out.
The noise of the gala vanished.
I murmured a brief apology to Ai and the guests, let go of her hand, and walked away.

As I stepped out of the banquet hall, the cold night air hit my face.
Only then did I feel my feet touch the ground again.

By the time I reached the hospital, the surgery was over.

I pushed the door open and saw him lying there — still, bandaged across the forehead and cheek. His chest rose and fell faintly, his skin pale to the point of transparency. His lips were moving slightly, whispering something I couldn’t hear.

“He’s still coming out of the anaesthesia,” the nurse murmured. “It might help if you stayed with him for a bit.”

I nodded and stepped closer.

His head was turned slightly to one side. Eyes closed. Eyelashes trembling, as if caught in some restless dream. I was still wondering what to say when he woke up — when his eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened.

His gaze was hazy, unfocused, like someone lost in fog.

And then he saw me.

His eyes froze — then constricted — and in that instant, they filled with something wild: shock, disbelief, and a desperate kind of recognition.

It all happened in a breath.

He jolted upright. IV lines, monitors, everything still attached. Alarms shrieked as he moved, but he didn’t seem to hear them. His eyes were fixed on me — nailed there — fierce and full of something like hope twisted by madness.

When I didn’t respond, he fought harder. Arms reaching out, shaking, bandages tugged by force. Somehow, impossibly, he pulled me into him, hugging me tight — so tight I thought he might break my ribs.

“Don’t go…”
His voice was muffled, trembling in my ear, almost a sob.
He kept muttering something, over and over — blurred oaths, slurred promises.
But the last few words were sharp, unforgettable:

“I won’t let you leave again. Never again.”

The nurse rushed in. Monitors were screaming. The room turned chaotic.
But he and I felt suspended in a different kind of time — frozen in something I couldn’t name.
I was swallowed by his grief, his desperation, and the shudder of his breath against my shoulder.

Eventually, the nurse administered a sedative. He quieted. Slowly. But even then, his hand wouldn’t let go — not until his strength finally gave out, and his arm fell away in silence.

“Probably just anesthesia,” the nurse said gently. “Or a stress-induced hallucination. It’s common. Let him rest a while — nothing to worry about.”

I nodded numbly and sat there at his bedside, staring down at my hands.
Only when his breathing steadied did I step out into the hallway.

And that’s when I saw her.

A woman — short curls, sharp eyes, dressed like someone who moves fast and speaks faster. She was breathless, clearly having rushed to get here.

Through the chaos of the ward, through nurses and beds and glass doors — her eyes found mine.

And for some reason, in that instant, she froze. Her gaze locked on my face.
It changed — from shock, to confusion, to something I can only describe as disbelief.

She opened her mouth — and spoke a name I wasn’t expecting to hear.

It was one name.

“Lucian?!”