One day, the operating room lights were harsh and unforgiving.

Haru had stood under them thousands of times before, hands steady, mind precise, movements exact. Surgery was where he felt most in control—where uncertainty could be forced into submission through skill and discipline.

But that day, control slipped through his fingers...

The patient had come in for a complicated cardiac procedure. High risk, but not impossible. Haru had studied every scan, every blood panel, every potential complication.

He had done everything right and yet… something went wrong.

Complications spiraled faster than anyone expected. Blood pressure dropped. The monitors screamed sharp alarms. Nurses moved quickly, handing instruments, adjusting equipment, following Haru’s commands with practiced efficiency.

For nearly six hours, Haru fought to keep the patient alive. Six hours of relentless effort and refusing to give up.

But medicine had it's limits.

Eventually the flat tone from the monitor filled the room. The sound was quiet. But to Haru it felt deafening. No one spoke for a long moment. Then one of the nurses gently turned the monitor off and announced the time of the patient death.

The silence afterward felt heavier than the alarms.

Outside the Operating Room

When Haru stepped into the waiting area, exhaustion weighed on every step. The patient’s family stood up immediately. Their faces carried hope. Hope that Haru knew he was about to destroy. He stopped in front of them and removed his surgical cap slowly.

“I’m… very sorry,” he said quietly. The words felt like shards in his throat.

“We tried everything we could. But the complications were too severe.”

The reaction was immediate. One woman collapsed into a chair, sobbing uncontrollably. Another man covered his face with his hands. Someone else began crying loudly, grief pouring out in waves.

And then—

“You killed him!”

The words cut through the room like a knife. A younger relative stepped forward, eyes burning with rage.

“You’re supposed to save people! That’s your job!” 

A different family member grabbed his arm.

“Stop! That’s not fair—”

“How is it not fair?!” the man shouted. “He went into surgery alive!”

“It was a high‑risk procedure!” another relative argued, voice shaking. “The doctor tried his best, this happens sometimes!”

The argument exploded into chaos, anger, grief, blame and denial.

Haru stood frozen in the center of it all. Every word struck like a hammer.

You killed him!

Even when security gently guided the family away and the nurses quietly dispersed, the words kept echoing in his mind.

Forced Leave

Later that evening the hospital administration called him in. Their tone was careful, professional.

“Dr. Sato, this case was extremely difficult,” the department head said. “But given the circumstances and your current workload… we believe it would be best if you take several days off.” Haru nodded automatically.

He barely heard the rest.

The First Night

His apartment felt too quiet. No hospital noise, the monitors sounds and voices.

Just silence.

Haru sat on the edge of his bed for hours, still in his work clothes, staring at nothing.

The scene replayed again and again in his mind.

The alarms and the flat tone. 

The shouting family member. You killed him!

His breathing grew uneven and his chest tighten. Eventually his hands started shaking. Almost instinctively, he picked up his phone and opened the chat with Kaito.

For several minutes he simply stared at the blank message box.

Then he began typing. The words came out messy and fragmented.

"I lost a patient today."

A moment later:

"They said it was my fault."

...

"Maybe they’re right."

The replies from Kaito came quickly.

Kaito:

Haru, I’m here. Tell me what happened.

Haru typed rapidly now, thoughts spilling out faster than he could organize them.

"Six hours in surgery, I tried everything. But it didn’t matter."

His breathing grew shakier.

More messages followed.

"I’m so tired, Kaito."

"I don’t know how to keep doing this."

Then the message that made Kaito’s stomach drop when he read it.

"Maybe everyone would be better off if I just stopped."

The typing indicator disappeared.

And then—

Nothing.

Silence...

Kaito stared at the phone.

Seconds passed. Then a full minute. No response.

A sharp unease spread through him.

He immediately pressed the call button.

The ringing tone echoed through the speaker.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then—

The call connected. For a moment, there was only silence. Then he heard it.

Breathing that's shaky and uneven.

And beneath it, a soft, broken sobbing.

“Haru?” Kaito said gently. The sobbing grew louder. Haru tried to speak but the words tangled in his throat. “I— I can’t—” he choked out. His voice sounded completely different from the composed surgeon Kaito had met weeks earlier.

This voice was raw and shattered.

“I tried so hard,” Haru whispered. “I did everything right. And it still wasn’t enough.”

Kaito kept his voice steady and calm.

“Haru, I’m glad you answered the phone. I need you to stay with me right now, okay?”

More sobbing.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Haru said. “Their faces… the way they looked at me.”

“That kind of loss affects every doctor deeply,” Kaito said carefully. “What you’re feeling right now is grief and shock.”

“But what if they’re right?” Haru said weakly.

“They’re not,” Kaito replied firmly. “Haru, listen to me. Losing a patient doesn’t make you a failure.” Haru’s breathing trembled. “I don’t know how to keep going.”

“You don’t have to solve everything tonight,” Kaito said gently. “We’re not figuring out your whole life tonight. I just need you to stay with me for now.””

Another pause.

“Haru, can you tell me where you are?”

“…My apartment.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Kaito said calmly. “I want you to sit somewhere comfortable and take a slow breath with me. Just one at a time.”

He waited. Slowly inhale...and exhale...

Gradually Haru’s breathing began to match the rhythm.

“You’re not alone right now,” Kaito continued. “I’m here with you on the phone."

Haru wiped his eyes. “I feel so… empty.”

“That emptiness is part of the depression bullshit,” Kaito said softly. “It lies to you. It tells you there’s no future. But that feeling can pass, especially with support.”

Haru didn’t reply immediately. Then..."Huh?" as he puzzle a bit by how Kaito just say the word 'bullshit' rather than his usual professional tone. But his breathing had steadied as his mind focus on other thing rather than the emptiness he felt. Kaito kept talking in a calm voice, guiding him through grounding exercises similar to the ones they practiced before. Minutes passed. 

Then finally Haru whispered, “…Thank you for calling.”

Kaito let out a quiet breath of relief. “I’m glad you picked up.”

Neither of them spoke for a while after that, but this time Haru didn’t hang up. And he slowly drifted to sleep as the exhaustion coming back to him.