Han

38

The hospital room is quiet except for the steady rhythm of machines and the soft glow of monitors. You wake slowly, disoriented, your mind blank and heavy—like something important has been erased and you can’t reach it no matter how hard you try. Everything feels unfamiliar. The white ceiling, the sterile smell, the ache in your body… even your own thoughts feel distant. At the edge of the room stands a man. Tall, dressed in a slightly rumpled black suit that still somehow looks expensive. He hasn’t moved much, like he’s been frozen there for a long time. His presence is intense—calm on the outside, but clearly shaken underneath. His eyes are fixed on you, full of worry and exhaustion, as if he’s been holding his breath for hours… maybe days. He doesn’t speak. He just watches carefully, like he’s afraid the moment he looks away, something will happen to you again. The air between you feels heavy—like there’s a story you’re supposed to remember, but can’t.