Lian hated night shifts
Her legs ached, her eyelids dropped, and all she could think about was getting home before her aunt locked her out again.
She was crossing the street when it happened.
Screeching tires.
A shout.
Then—thud.
She froze.
Across the road, two boys—twins—had been arguing in the middle of the lane. She saw it all.
One of them noticed the speeding car too late. But the other…
The other pushed his brother out of the way.
He took the hit.
The crash sent his body flying, then crashing to the ground with a sound that would haunt her.
Lian's heart stopped.
It didn't feel real. It felt like something out of a movie. But the blood pooling beneath him said otherwise.
She ran.
There was no one else around. No traffic. No crowd. Just the brother screaming, and a stranger lying broken on the pavement.
Her hands trembled as she fumbled for her phone.
> "Hello? There's been an accident! He's not moving—please, send help!"
She moved them gently from the road before the ambulance arrived, whispering soft apologies she didn't know she was saying.
At the hospital, the nightmare didn't end.
> "He already looks dead."
> "We have other patients waiting."
Lian stepped forward, desperate.
> "As long as there's life, there's hope," she begged. "Please. Please do something."
They finally took him in.
She sat outside the operating room for hours.
He didn't die.
But he didn't wake up either.
She didn't know him. She didn't owe him anything.
But something about what she saw—his bravery, the silence after the crash, the blood—wouldn't leave her alone.
The other twin survived. She visited him once, when he was unconscious. But after that, she never went back.
Her focus had shifted. Entirely.
The next night, she returned.
Then again.
She lied to her school. Skipped work. Said nothing to her aunt.
She'd sit by the boy's bed quietly, her eyes tracing the bruises on his face, the bandaged arm, the stitches on his brow.
He looked like he might wake up any second and say it was all a joke.
Somehow, he still looked peaceful—beautiful, even.
> "Who are you?" she whispered one evening. "Why would you do that for someone else?"
She prayed over him every night before she left.
Until one night, an emergency called her home.
She stood by his bedside, reluctant to leave. Then she took off the only thing she had of value—a tiny bracelet her mother gave her before prison.
She laid it gently by his hand.
> "So you know someone was here," she said softly.
Then she left.
Her aunt was waiting.
A slap across the face.
Then another.
"Where've you been sneaking off to?"
> "Skipping work now? Are you out of your mind?"
> "Your mama's in jail and you still think you can be choosy?"
Lian didn't fight back.
She never did.
For two days, she wasn't allowed to leave the house.
And when she finally returned to the hospital...
The bed was empty.
No patient.
No bracelet.
No twin.
No trace.
Not even a name on the records.
He was gone.
Lian walked out of the hospital with a heaviness in her chest.
No records. No answers. No explanation.
Had he died?
She gripped her bag tightly, knuckles white. Her legs felt numb, as if the ground beneath her wasn't solid. But she kept walking anyway.
If she stopped, she might cry.
---
But somewhere far away, behind glass walls and guarded gates, a war had just begun.
Salim's grandfather stood like stone beside his hospital bed—jaw tight, eyes like ice.
> "I want him transferred," he said. "Now."
The doctors protested.
> "He's unstable—"
> "Move. Him."
Within the hour, Salim was flown via private jet to the family's primary hospital.
Only three people were allowed to know: his grandfather, his twin brother Elian, and the family's firstborn—Rayzel.
Rayzel had just finished a surgery in London when he got the call.
He didn't hesitate.
Within four hours, he was on a plane, heart pounding with fear he refused to admit.
Salim wasn't just his brother.
He was his baby brother. His other half.
When Rayzel saw the scans, he cursed under his breath.
> "Internal bleeding… fractured ribs… lungs at risk."
The hospital board refused to let him operate.
> "You're emotionally compromised."
> "I'm his only chance," Rayzel snapped. "You either assist me—or get out of my way."
They gave in.
He scrubbed in. The moment the scalpel touched Salim's skin, Rayzel's hands shook—not from fear, but from pain.
This shouldn't be happening.
But he kept going. He had to.
> "Clamp that. Suction. We're going in."
Every second felt like an hour. But when they finally stitched him up, Salim's pulse was stronger than before.
He didn't wake up.
But he was fighting.
---
Alaric Vance, the grandfather, couldn't bear to look.
Elian, the twin, felt hollow.
All his life, he had been the one protecting his brother. Taking the blame. Standing in front of the fire.
But this time…
He was the one standing.
And Salim was the one slipping between life and death.
It was his fault.
He sat beside the bed, voice shaking.
> "I love you. I admire you. I always have. So please… wake up, Salim. Wake up."
And Rayzel?
He didn't leave the room.
He designed new braces for Salim's arms by hand. Every curve, every metal piece—made with love, made with desperation.
All he could do now… was wait.
And pray.
He hadn't slept.
Not more than fifteen minutes at a time. Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw it:
The car.
The scream.
The blood.
And his brother flying through the air.
Rayzel would have traded places in a heartbeat.
> "Still no change," he muttered, walking in with a fresh I.V. bag.
Elian just nodded, too exhausted to speak.
> "You need sleep."
> "I need him to wake up."
Rayzel didn't argue. He couldn't.
They were all breaking in their own way.
No one else knew. Their mother was still expecting them to arrive for Rayzel's wedding. Only the men of the family carried the weight of this secret.
Elian walked over to the bed. Salim looked like he was dreaming. Like he might open his eyes and laugh about it.
His gaze dropped—and something caught the light.
A bracelet.
He picked it up. Small. Worn. Delicate.
Definitely not Salim's.
And then he remembered—just barely—the face of a girl from that day.
Crying. Yelling.
Begging.