Rhea's POV
Everything is pitch-black.
Not the kind of dark you find when you close your eyes, but the heavy, endless kind that presses in from every side.
I can't see anything, only faint murmurs breaking through the silence—voices that echo, distorted, as if they belong to another world.
It feels like I've been shut inside an endless chamber, weightless yet trapped, where time stretches and folds in on itself. Sometimes, in the stillness, warmth brushes against me—fingers lacing with mine, a grip that reminds me I'm not completely gone.
I don't know how long I drifted like that before something pulled me upward. A flicker of recollection. A spark of memory. And then—light, piercing through the void.
The last ramnants of death still clung to me, replaying like broken film reels, reminding me of what I lost… and what I left behind.
I'm quite sure I died. But I felt someone holding me, whispering things into my ears. A hazy face appeared before I finally lost my breath. I remember the cold—the warmth draining from my body. It feels as if I'm still trapped there: gone, but not. Alive, but not.
When I opened my eyes, the world felt too bright. White walls surrounded me, the sharp smell of antiseptic filling my nose. I tried to look down, to see my body, but I couldn't. Wires and bandages wrapped me so thoroughly that even turning my head was impossible. I closed my eyes again, searching for my memories, but nothing came. Only pain.
Footsteps approached. My heart tightened with every echo. The door opened, and he walked in.
Jiang Xi is here, I thought.
As soon as he saw me, he hurried to my side, took my hand, and said something. But the words slipped past me—I couldn't process them. His expression was strained. His eyes soften when he saw me.
Then he called for the doctors. They checked me quickly, relief softening their faces at the sight of me awake. For a moment, I felt alive too.
My eyes kept straying back to Jiang Xi. He was the only familiar presence, the only one I could call family. Because, in some way, he's mine.
He spoke quietly with the doctor, glancing at me between sentences. When they left, he returned to my side, sitting silently for a while, just looking at me.
"What?" I tried to say, but my throat refused to work. No sound came out.
"You can't talk right now," he said gently, rubbing circles over my hand.
"You barely survived. The doctor said since you went without air for too long… well, your throat isn't in any condition to be used." He sighed.
"I'll ask questions instead. Just nod in response, okay?"
I nodded.
"Were you scared? It looked like you screamed a lot," he asked, voice tenderer than I'd ever heard it.
I don't remember screaming. The last moments were so terrifying, they blurred into nothing. But yes, I was scared. So I nodded.
His grip clenched slightly. "Are you still in pain? The doctor said you'll be fine, but I don't trust him."
I nodded again, blinking at him. I opened my mouth, wanting to speak, but his hand stilled me.
"Shh. Don't force yourself right now. Rest. Your body needs it—you've only been sleeping these past days." His calm expression had returned, though his voice still carried a faint tremor.
I raised my brows in question.
"Ah… you've been in a coma for twelve days. And without any real food at that. Your body is weak, so rest, and recover. The doctor said you can eat in two days at best. I'll try to convince him to let you have something light sooner." He gave my hand another squeeze.
I nodded twice. His shoulders seemed to loosen.
"I'll be outside then. If you need anything—here, take this." He pressed something small into my palm, like a big button. "Just press it, and I'll come immediately. Rest assured, I'll be nearby."
I held his hand tighter. I didn't want him to leave. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe the weakness, but the fear was real: if I closed my eyes, I might never see him again. If he left, this fragile dream might vanish.
"Are you scared?" he asked.
I nodded.
"You want me to stay?"
Another nod.
He studied me for a moment before relenting. "Alright. I'll stay. Go ahead and rest."
He sat back beside me, tracing gentle circles on my skin, as if willing calm into me.
"I can't believe even you have a childish side," he murmured with a faint smile.
A small smile tugged at my lips too.
I closed my eyes, still clutching his hand. He kept soothing me until I sank into slumber. Our conversation replayed in my head again and again. I'd never written him speaking this much to any victim before. But tonight, he did. And I liked it.
I finally slept, clutching his hand, hoping that when tomorrow came, this fragile reality wouldn't end—that he'd still be here, holding me, just like this.