He is sick

The morning light seeped through the obstinate trees, their leaves swaying gently in the breeze, droplets of dew glimmering like precious gems under the soft kiss of the sun. Birds flitted from branch to branch, their songs weaving through the air, distant yet soothing. In the white-painted hospital room, the curtains shifted lazily, revealing fleeting streaks of sunlight that stretched toward the figure lying motionless on the bed. His closed eyes fluttered twice at the distant murmur of voices.

Iden’s heavy lids parted, revealing dark eyes clouded with confusion. His gaze drifted upward, meeting the blank, sterile expanse of the white ceiling. His chest rose and fell unevenly, the stiffness in his neck sparking a dull, persistent ache.

“What… What am I doing here?” His voice cracked, each word clawing its way from his dry throat. He ran a hand across his face, feeling the roughness of fever-chilled skin. The pounding in his head mirrored the disarray of his thoughts.

James stepped closer, his tone tinged with urgency. “Boss, we found you unconscious last night. You had a fever,” he said, his hands fidgeting nervously. “The doctors said you need to stay under observation and rest for a few days.”

Iden’s brows knitted as fragmented images surged into his mind. Rain-soaked streets. Her voice—soft, trembling. Arms wrapped tightly around her trembling frame. He could feel the imprint of her warmth lingering on his skin. His jaw tightened as he fought to tether the memory in place. No, it wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t be. The vividness of her scent, the weight of her presence—these weren’t conjured by his imagination.

“Did you see anyone near me?” His voice cracked again, desperate this time, his knuckles pressing into the bed’s edge.

James hesitated, shaking his head slowly. “No, sir. You were alone, lying near the fountain.”

Iden’s frustration flared, an electric surge of tension coursing through his veins. His fingers raked through his thick black hair as he pressed further. “The surveillance footage—what does it show?”

James swallowed hard, his gaze faltering. “The street and garden cameras weren’t functioning last night. I checked, but… Nothing.”

Iden’s breath hitched as his mind churned relentlessly. She had been there. He knew it. But now she had vanished—like a shadow slipping between cracks. His jaw clenched as his vision blurred briefly in helpless rage. Before he could question further, the door creaked open.

An elegantly dressed woman entered, the faint sound of her heels clicking against the polished tiles. She carried a tray laden with a meticulously arranged meal. Her every movement radiated opulence, her wealth stitched into the fabric of her attire. “Iden,” she said, her lips curving into a practiced pout, “I spent the entire morning preparing this. Black chicken soup—your favorite. You have to eat something.” She placed the tray on the table beside him, her gaze flickering toward his restless frame. “Why don’t you take care of yourself? I’ve been so worried.”

Her delicate hands reached toward him, attempting to help him sit up, but her approach was cut short by the entrance of a nurse pushing a medical cart.

The nurse moved with quiet precision, her every motion purposeful. As she leaned over to adjust Iden’s pillow, the faintest trace of a familiar scent wafted toward him—subtle yet arresting, like the lingering warmth of something once cherished. His breath stilled for a fraction of a second. That scent. His gaze sharpened, trailing the curve of her gloved hands as she held his wrist to insert the IV needle. His thumb brushed over the spot where her fingers had been, the sensation electrifying his skin.

She turned away, her eyes sweeping across the breakfast tray briefly before she spoke under the mask. “At this time, anything but porridge will be detrimental to his health.” Her voice—soft yet firm—shattered him like glass.

His chest tightened violently, his pulse drumming in his ears. That voice. He would recognize it even in death.

“Halt,” Iden barked, his voice cutting through the sterile air. He ripped the IV from his arm, the sting barely registering. “Stop her!”

“Iden! Don’t move—you’ll hurt yourself!” The elegantly dressed woman pleaded, her hands reaching toward him in alarm, but he brushed past her without a glance.

“Ellaya!” The name escaped him like a desperate prayer as he spotted the nurse pushing the cart toward the hallway. He lunged forward, his steps clumsy but relentless, grabbing her arm and yanking the mask away. His breath faltered when wide, terrified eyes met his—eyes unfamiliar. It wasn’t her.

His chest tightened, the brief surge of hope crumbling into the weight of despair. The scent, the voice—they had all been real, hadn’t they? Yet his fingers trembled at the realization, his grip loosening as confusion clawed at his heart.

He stepped back, his chest constricting under the weight of disappointment. “I apologize,” he murmured numbly before retreating. But his mind refused to be quiet. She was nearby, he was sure of it. Those purplish eyes he’d glimpsed—the scent that lingered—it wasn’t a dream, and it wasn’t a coincidence.

In the dim utility room, Ellaya’s knees buckled, her trembling hands clutching the fabric of her nurse’s uniform. Silent tears streaked her pale cheeks. She hadn’t sobbed—not yet. But her body felt raw, crushed by the memories she couldn’t escape.

Last night, she had been careless, driven by the ache of longing. When he appeared before her, his warmth wrapping around her as he spoke her name, her resolve had crumbled. She had held him, whispered his name back, forgetting everything but the ghost of the love they’d once shared. Reality came crashing down when she pushed a needle into his pressure point, her actions robotic as she dragged him to the flowerbed.

She had waited patiently beneath the shadows, slipping into the hospital undetected. Her movements were calculated, careful, and she had silenced the nurse quickly before taking her place.

Her phone vibrated suddenly, breaking the silence that suffocated her like fog. She inhaled sharply, reading the words on the screen: *“You will regret your life if you do not show up.”*

The words sent a chill down her spine. She knew exactly who was behind them, and why she couldn’t ignore them, no matter how much she wanted to disappear forever.

Her hands fell to her sides as she stared at the message. The steel in her eyes returned, hardening over the cracks in her resolve. No matter how fragile her heart felt now, she reminded herself—this wasn’t over. It couldn’t be.