Before we start, every chapters have to be separated into two parts beacuse of the word limit and my stockpiled chapters are too long so I'll just be uploaded two chapters (part 1&2) with the same thumbnail at once for every chapters.

_______________

 

He was clutching a clipboard with a pen in one hand, his knuckles white as he talked to a teenage boy who looked like he couldn't be older than twenty.

"I don't care how much it costs, just make this man well again," the young man shouted, his voice echoing down the sterile hospital corridor.

He was wearing a black leather jacket with a white tee and stretched-out jeans. His fists were clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms.

"But Mr. Philip, sir, even if the surgery ended with success—which has chapa success rate of thirty out of a hundred—this is still not a permanent solution," the doctor argued, his voice shaking as he took a step back.

"We would simply be risking his life in the hope of extending it by a few months," he continued, his hands trembling as he showed the clipboard to him.

Philip snatched the clipboard from the doctor so hard the man flinched. He inspected its contents, his jaw clenching tighter with every word he read.

'Mayo Clinic'—the hospital name was branded on top of the sheet in bold letters, one of the most renowned hospitals in the world. Known for its high-quality care and patient outcomes.

'DERRICK BELMORT, glioblastoma multiforme'—the patient's name and disease were listed below in cold, clinical print.

The patient listed was suffering from a fast-growing brain tumor and had been bedridden for the past two months, showing no signs of recovery.

Philip read the content repeatedly, his expression growing darker, his brows furrowing deeper with each second. The fluorescent lights above flickered slightly, casting harsh shadows across his face.

'These motherfuckers. They were all bright and sunshine when we arrived, going as far as promising me they would definitely cure Derrick.'

'We've been here for two months already, taking any treatment they suggested, and yet Derrick's condition seems like it's getting worse by the day.'

Philip's finger shot out, jabbing towards the already intimidated doctor. "Then what am I to do here, huh?"

"Are you suggesting that I wait around doing nothing until my friend dies? Is that what you're saying?" His voice cracked at the end, raw emotion bleeding through despite his anger.

The doctor frantically waved his hands in front of his chest like he was trying to shield himself. "No, no, no, sir, I was just stating the risk factors and possibilities." Sweat was beading on his forehead now.

The doctor was clearly older than Philip but couldn't do much against the weight of the name in front of him.

The man standing before him was Philip Whitmore.

The only son of Richard Whitmore, the co-founder of Whitmore Corporation, a multimillion-dollar organization holding assets of Whitmore International Bank, hotels, and stock firms.

The man listed on the clipboard, Derrick, on the other hand, was not financially remarkable. He was a middle-class student at Ashford Global who happened to get along with Philip.

After six years of friendship, Derrick was diagnosed with a brain tumor, which led to the current situation.

The whole hospital board committee was present when Philip and Derrick first arrived. And now that they'd confirmed Derrick's illness couldn't be treated, they sent Dr. Mason Clarke, the head surgeon of the clinic, to receive the backlash alone and somehow de-escalate the situation.

Philip rubbed his temples roughly, his fingers pressing hard against his skull like he was trying to squeeze out the frustration. He let out a long, shaky sigh that seemed to drain all the fight out of him for a moment. "Whatever it is, don't stop looking for new possibilities," he said, his voice suddenly flat and exhausted.

He knew Dr. Mason was just a scapegoat from the higher-ups, to make sure they wouldn't get Philip's outburst directly.

Philip then stormed off towards the end of the hallway, his footsteps heavy and echoing against the polished white floors. He stopped at the door of a private room, his hand hovering over the handle for just a moment.

*Knock knock.*

Without waiting for a response, he pushed the door open.

It was a large, spacious room with a bed and a television mounted diagonally opposite the entrance. Afternoon sunlight filtered through half-drawn blinds, casting striped shadows across the floor. The room was cool and fresh, with a nostalgic smell of freshly laundered sheets mixed with the faint antiseptic scent that clung to everything in hospitals.

In one corner, multiple gifts and balloons were placed—bright, cheerful colors that felt almost mocking in this space. There was a Nintendo Switch and an Xbox, which could be connected to the monitor, along with some books stacked neatly but clearly untouched.

A sleep-deprived man with pale skin and a skeletal build slept on the bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. From his looks, he was clearly not in the state to use any of the things they'd brought for him.

He had a beanie on to cover his bald head from radiotherapy, pulled down low. A nasal cannula was looped around his ears, constantly supplying oxygen to his body with a quiet hiss.

Even with the hospital gown covering him, one could easily tell from his sunken cheeks and dark-circled eyes that he was suffering. His skin looked paper-thin, almost translucent under the harsh hospital lighting.

"How's it going there, buddy?" Philip slowly walked up to him, his movements careful and quiet, like he was afraid to disturb the fragile stillness. He sat down on a stool beside the bed, the metal legs scraping softly against the floor.

"Philly," Derrick slowly opened his eyes, each blink seeming to take enormous effort. His voice was barely above a whisper, raspy and dry. "I told you, you didn't have to come every day. Plus, I can feel my body getting stronger."

"I'll be out in no time," he replied tiredly, his hand fumbling for the button that made the bed support him upright. The motor whirred quietly as the bed adjusted.

'This lying son of a bitch.'

'He must've already heard it from the doctor, yet he's saying crap like this straight to my face.'

"Like hell you are. I could probably fill a liter of water in those sunken cheeks of yours."

"I thought you were cosplaying a zombie at first." Philip pointed towards his face, his finger practically poking the air.

"It's already a miracle that the nurses aren't running from you screaming."

Philip said this with his face dead serious, not a hint of a smile, which somehow made it funnier.

"Well, your face looks fine. I don't see a group of cheerleaders surrounding you," Derrick shot back, his head slowly turning as he made a big show of looking around the empty room with an exaggerated dumb look plastered on his face.

The two went back and forth, their voices getting louder, more animated, until one of them finally ran out of comebacks and just resorted to making faces at the other.

This was an usual interaction between the two. If anyone were to eavesdrop, they would have thought the two hated each other to their very core.

But that wasn't the case. With Philip's background as a snobby rich kid, he never knew how to express his feelings properly and would lash out at others, like a young boy pulling the hair of the girl he liked.

As time passed, he'd somewhat grown past that stage in his life, but Derrick had adapted to it well, throwing back insults whenever he had the chance with equal enthusiasm.

That was the type of friendship they had.

---