There’s still no improvement in dad’s memory. For how long do I have to keep lying? Should I tell him the truth that all this time, he’s been talking to his son? But then I remember that night. That terrible night when he looked at me with fear in his eyes, refusing to believe I was his son. I can’t live through that again. As a stranger, at least he talks to me.

My thoughts are spinning, questions piling up in my head, when a sudden weight lands on my knees. I open my eyes to find a small boy grinning up at me with a toothless smile.

“Brother!” he shouts, his dark blonde hair falling into his emerald eyes. His cheeks are flushed and his forehead glistens with sweat, like he’s been running for a while.

“Nero! I—sorry!”

A man in his late forties rushes toward us, apologizing to a passing nurse as he catches up. I lift Nero onto my lap as the man stops in front of me. He looks just like Nero, only older. My stepfather.

“Mr. Finnian,” I greet, offering a small nod.

He catches his breath and sits down beside me with a groan, “I’m too old to be running through hospital corridors,” Everett mutters, rubbing his temple as Nero giggles in my lap.

“Papa! We caught brother in time! Don’t I have a sharp eye?” Nero says proudly, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

“Yes, you do, champ,” Everett replies, smiling as he adjusts Nero’s hair, “But let’s promise not to run off from me next time, okay?”

“Okay!” Nero chirps and settles more comfortably on my lap, “Brother! Did you come to meet your dad?” he asks, tilting his head curiously.

“Yeah,” I answer with a smile, “Do you want to meet him too?”

“We already met him before Nero’s checkup,” Everett says, glancing at his son with a gentle expression.

“Oh.” I nod, my tone turning lighter, “What did the doctor say?”

Everett lets out a sigh and pats Nero’s back a few times before answering, “The doctor said his lungs are still struggling, but it’s manageable for now. We just have to stay consistent with his treatments.”

Just as Everett finishes, Nero starts coughing, the sound raspy and wet. Everett quickly pulls an inhaler from his pocket and hands it to him. Nero takes a few practiced breaths through it, his chest rising and falling steadily.

Everett’s expression softens as Nero hands the inhaler back, “He’s gotten used to it,” he says, “But the mucus buildup is worse during the colder months. The doctor suggested we start another round of physiotherapy if it gets bad again.”

“If you are busy with work, I can bring him to the hospital. I know court can be unforgiving at times,” I offer.

“That won’t be necessary, Mikhael. His babysitter will manage it when I can’t. You already have too much on your plate.” Everett looks at Nero and adds, “Champ, could you watch the sky by the window? Papa needs to talk with brother about something.” Nero nods eagerly before hopping down from my lap and skipping toward the window, “Mikhael, are you really holding yourself up?” Everett asks, his voice probing.

“Uhh…yeah,” I reply, trying to sound casual, “You don’t have to worry.”

He rests a hand on my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, “Did Qiang ask about Adoella?”

I remember the letter dad handed me and forced a smile through the ache in my chest. “It…doesn’t mean anything. Mom already hates us. Dad is…just waiting for someone who would never look back at him.”

“Mikhael, I am saying this as someone who cares about you, but do you want me to ask Adoella to talk to Qiang? Maybe some kind of closure?”

“That will only make things worse. Without her, Dad can live in the illusion that he is still married to her even though she has already decided to spend her life with you,” I reply firmly.

We sit in silence for a while, until Nero comes running toward Everett, whining about being hungry.

“Papa! I want to eat ice cream! Brother, will you come with us?”

“Mikhael has somewhere else to be, Nero.” Everett turns to me as he lifts his son into his arms, “Tachibana wanted to talk with you. You should meet her.”

I rise to follow them as Nero presses a quick kiss to my cheek and hands me something from his pocket. “I made this in class! Bye, brother!”

As they walk away, I look down at my hand and see a small paper dog. I smile at the little craft and slip it into my pocket. Touching the cheek where Nero just kissed me, I feel warmth spread through me, easing the heaviness inside.

Tachibana called me? It’s probably about dad’s condition.

I walk down the corridor until I reach the consultation room with a golden plate that reads Dr. Tachibana. Knocking, I open the door to find her speaking on the phone. She notices me and gestures for me to sit. I make my way to the desk and settle into the chair, my eyes drifting around the room to pass the time.

Every corner gleams with framed certificates, trophies, and awards that almost outshine the soft lighting. Yume Tachibana belongs to the family that owns this hospital. She may be older now, her hair streaked with gray, but her mind is as sharp as ever and more calculating than most. It’s no surprise that Layla chose to practice neurosurgery under her guidance.

Tachibana is known for treating patients who survived stealer attacks. She fought relentlessly against the government to ensure those victims received a chance at recovery but her efforts were never truly recognized. Now, the government controls the hospital she once built her reputation in, leaving her legacy overshadowed by bureaucracy.

“Come down here when you are done with the tests. I want you to meet someone,” she says, ending the call.

I stand and bow, “Mrs. Tachibana, you wanted to meet me?”

“Mikhael, did you pay Dr. Thompson this week?”

Dr. Thompson. The doctor who performed my dad’s surgery. A man more interested in money than medicine, and yet, the only one skilled enough to keep my father alive.

“Yeah, I paid him at the start of November.”

“I don’t want to alarm you,” she says, “but he claims he hasn’t received your payment.”

“That…that’s impossible!” My voice comes out louder than I intend. I fumble for my phone, scrolling through my messages until I find the payment confirmation. I hold the screen out to her, “Look, I did it. Same time as always. I even double-checked the transfer…”

My words falter. My fingers start trembling.

No…no, no…this can’t be happening.

If he didn’t get the payment, then they’ll label dad as—

“Mikhael, calm down. I know you are thinking of the worst case scenario. He hasn’t been labeled as a ‘Void’ yet. No one is going to take him away.”

“I...I know. I just...”

“You don’t have to say it.” Her tone softens, “It’s a tragedy for anyone attacked by a stealer. Most families abandon their loved ones because of the unbearable cost of treatment. The fact that you haven’t only shows how much you’re willing to fight for your father, and I respect that.”

She pauses for a moment before asking, “Did you meet your father today?”

“I did. His memory hasn’t improved yet.”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Your father recalls certain parts of his life but forgets everything that followed certain traumatic events, like...”

“Like his divorce with Mom,” I finish for her.

“Exactly. He refuses to acknowledge what came after that. Because of it, he doesn’t remember you as who you are now, but as the child he cherished most, Mingxi.”

“But why?”

“That’s what we’re trying to understand,” she says, “We’ve identified this condition and given it a name, the ‘Hollowing’. It’s a variant of Alzheimer’s, but in this case, the stealer specifically took a single thread of his memory.”

I frown, “Who told you about that name? I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned it before.”

“That’s why I want you to meet someone,” she replies.

Right at that moment, the door opens. I turn to see the same intern I’ve been noticing since my arrival to the hospital.

“Come in, Optimo,” Mrs. Tachibana says.

Optimo? The same name as the guy I chatted with on that dating app last night. He did mention he was a doctor-in-training…but could it really be him?

He walks in and sits beside me, his eyes darting everywhere except at me. I extend my hand toward him for a handshake. He stares at it for what feels like five minutes before finally taking it and the first thing I notice is his gloved hands. Weird.

“Mikhael Lee,” I say with a polite smile. He gives a small nod, his raven-black hair falling over his face as he briefly shakes my hand before retreating.

“Mikhael,” Mrs. Tachibana begins, “you’ll be glad to know…He is the one who paid Dr. Thompson when he complained and he has taken over the responsibility of looking after your father.”

Relief washes over me, but a nagging unease lingers in my chest. People always want something in return for their kindness. What does he want from me?

“He is also the one who has been studying your father’s condition and came up with the name,” Mrs. Tachibana continues, her voice filled with pride. My unease only grows stronger.

I glance at him and say, “Thank you for your help…Optimo.”

He stiffens slightly at the sound of his name, his hair brushing over his eyes, but he nods without speaking.

Mrs. Tachibana steps closer and gestures toward the door, “Optimo, why don’t you take Mikhael to the ground floor and let you two get to know each other better?”

He hesitates, his hands fidgeting in his lap, then finally stands. He offers a small, awkward nod and moves toward the door. I rise as well, and follow him silently, my curiosity mixing with that uneasy feeling gnawing at my chest.

While we wait for the elevator, I decide to break the silence, “Why are you helping me?” I ask, my voice curious.

For a moment, it feels like he is ignoring me. Then, his voice comes out soft, almost careful. “I…believe every patient deserves a chance at recovery,” he says as the elevator doors slide open. He steps inside first and presses the button for the ground floor.

I tilt my head, “But what you did goes beyond the aid of a doctor.”

He hesitates, his fingers brushing against the railing as he avoids my gaze, “T-That’s something I can’t disclose,” he replies.

Even if he is the same Optimo from last night, he is acting as if he doesn’t know me, or maybe he does but chooses to ignore the messages I received. Curiosity pushes me further, “Are you a friend of Shadowman?”

He coughs, and I feel the tension rise, but he quickly recovers, voice meek, “N-No.”

The elevator screeches to a stop, and as we step out, I ask one last question, leaning slightly closer to catch his reaction, “Are you perhaps on a dating app?”

His face reddens, and I can read the answer in the flush of his cheeks. I open my mouth to press further, to hear it from him, but a sudden weight lands on my shoulder. I whirl around to see Layla, helmet on, keys wrapped around her index finger.