Word reached the State House: the president's eldest son had survived.
No one expected him to. Not after the fall. Not after the silence. But now, murmurs echoed through marbled halls and behind closed doors-murmurs that he has opened his eyes. Somewhere behind sterile curtains and guarded walls, a boy everyone thought dead was breathing again. And if that boy was awake...it meant questions were coming. Dangerous ones.
A soft light pressed against his closed eyelids, he tried to lift them up. Something soft touched his hand. He tried to move his fingers. They twitched, just barely.
"Darling...darling, are you awake?"
The voice was soft, worried -and at the same time, relieved.
Then suddenly, her tone shifted, sharp and commanding.
"Guards, call the doctors right now! My son is awake!"
He opened his eyelids with great difficulty-slow, dragging movements as though lifting them from underwater.
Blink. Once-a blurred white ceiling.
Blink. Twice-a blurred white curtains.
Then the smell hit him.
Clean. Cold. Sterile.
Like alcohol, bleach, and something bitter pressing sharp into the ridge of his nose, settling deep in his throat.
Footsteps approached.
Muffled voices stirred the silence, then grew louder-closer.
"Check the IV drip, now."
"His vitals are stabilizing, Doctor."
"Good. Adjust the oxygen flow. Keep an eye on BP. He's waking up."
The air shifted. He felt it. Movement. Presence. Noise breaking against the stillness of his mind.
He opened his eyes.
The blur faded. Shapes sharpened. Light softened.
A man stood near the bed.
White coat. Square glasses. A clipboard in hand. He scribbled something. Silent.
He blinked again, and turned his head-slowly.
A woman sat beside him.
Short, neat hair framed her face. A pair of slim glasses rested low on her nose. She looked tired-like she hadn't slept in days-but her eyes were sharp with worry. She held his hand carefully, like it might vanish if she let go.
Her voice cracked.
"Doctor...how is he?"
The man looked up from his notes.
"He's out of danger now."
A pause.
"He just needs rest."
The man adjusted the clipboard in his hand, then stepped back, his shoes brushing softly against the tiled floor. With a slight bow toward the woman seated beside the bed, he said gently, "If you may excuse me, I may take my leave now, Your Honor."
Renji's eyes drifted on the opposite side of the bed where two women in white coats stood. Their expressions were composed, eyes alert behind their glasses. As the man bowed, they mirrored him, each offering a respectful nod before turning in unison.
The woman beside him gave a small nod in return, and the three exited without another word.
As the door clicked shut, silence settled again. Then, the woman leaned closer. Her fingers, warm and familiar, brushed gently over his ear and down to his temple-a soft, soothing motion.
"Darling," she whispered, her voice wrapped in tenderness, "I'm so glad you're awake. You don't know how worried Mama was. I nearly had a heart attack."
Mama?
The word lingered on his lips like an echo from a life he didn't recognize. Warmth, strange and familiar all at once, radiated from her grip on his hand. He didn't pull away. Not yet.
But nothing inside him could name her. Or himself.
Click.
The door opened softly.
The first figure to enter was a tall man-composed, stern, and regal in every sense of the word. He wore a perfectly tailored dark charcoal suit, the kind of cut reserved for power. His navy tie sat crisp against a pressed white shirt, and a gleaming presidential pin rested on his lapel. His eyes were cold and unreadable as they scanned the room.
Behind him came two aides-one in a smart military uniform, medals glinting softly under the ceiling lights ,the other holding a sleek tablet, tapping something quickly before standing still.
Renji blinked once. Then again.
The blur in his vision sharpened, and the man before him solidified.
The president.
His heart skipped. Am I dreaming? Why is the president standing in front of me? His mind swirled with confusion, but the man didn't pause.
Still standing, he looked toward the bed and scoffed.
"Your son is awake now. Always creating trouble for himself."
A pause. "When will he finally grow a spine?"
The woman sitting by Renji's side raised her chin slightly, her voice firm but calm.
"He's not my son alone. He's our son."
Renji's lips moved in a whisper.
"Son..."
The word tasted strange on his tongue.
A frown creased his brow. He reached toward his throat-fingers brushing over skin that felt foreign. The touch met something unfamiliar-a firmness where there used to be none. A subtle protrusion. His breath hitched.
What...is that?
Eyes wide, his gaze dropped to his chest. No curves. No softness. Just a flat, defined plane of muscles.
His arms-broader than he remembered. The veins, the weight of them-wrong. He brought one closer, turning it slowly. The hand was large, rough. Not hers.
Curiosity clawed at confusion. Slowly, his hand slid under the blanket, fingers trembling. Lower. Lower.
He froze.
There was something there.
Heavy. Definite. Impossible.
His eyes shot open wider. A dry gasp escaped him.
"What the hell...is this? "Before he could process the answer, the sudden movement jolted the bed. Machines nearby let out a soft beep.
"Darling, take it easy," the woman beside him said, her voice laced with concern. She reached out, gently brushing his hair back.
"The doctor said you need rest. Okey"
She was trying to soothe him, but his mind was a tornado.
He stared at her-this elegant woman with short, styled hair and dignified glasses. Her eyes shimmered with emotion, as if she truly cared.
Who are you to me? Why are you calling me...?
Before she could speak, a soft chime echoed from the mounted television in the corner of the hospital room.
BREAKING NEWS, the screen flashed.
A solemn-looking anchor appeared.
"Tragedy stuck Ashthorn Girls' Academy last night, when 18-year-old Mirael Wanza was found dead in her dormitory. Early reports suggests the cause of death as suicide by poisoning."
A photograph of a delicate girl with soft features and kind eyes appeared on the screen. Her name, Mirael Wanza, glowed beneath.
"Authorities found a handwritten note by her bedside, mentioning emotional distress, heartbreak, and feeling of betrayal. The investigation is on going."
He stared at the screen
The name. The face. The note.
It was him. Or rather...her.
That was me.
President Ayonome's tone turned colder, more composed-but heavy with political shame:
"This is the generation we are preparing to inherit this nation?"
He turned slightly, gaze fixed on the muted television screen where the news still scrolled.
"A girl ends her life over...what? A failed romantic? Emotional weakness?"
His voice sharpened, clipped with disapproval.
"Back when I their age, we were raised to endure, to build, to serve. Now they collapse under pressure and choose death over responsibility. It is a national embarrassment."
He turned fully face the room .
"How can we entrust our future to a generation that escapes it so easily?"
A long pause. His eyes dropped-briefly.
"There is no honor in surrendering one's life for personal pain. Only shame. And this country cannot afford to be led by the ashamed."
The president's voice, sharp and loaded with shame, rang in the air like a cold verdict. It lingered-heavy. Too heavy.
It disturbed Renji.
Her eyes drifted from the man who spoke like a judge, back to the woman sitting beside her-the one who had called her "darling," the one holding her hand like she was holding something fragile. Something she had almost lost.
This woman...Mama?
His brow tightened. He stared harder, reading every line on the woman's face-the worry, the exhaustion, the quiet relief.
But inside, the questions screamed.
Renji's voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper.
"W-what...happened to me?"
The woman leaned in. Her grip tightened gently, tenderly.
"Mama?" he asked again, his voice cracking. "What happened to me? How long have I...been in a coma?"
The room fell silent again.
"You were found at the edge of the cliff conscious," The woman replied, her voice quiet but clear. "You've been in a coma...for three months."
Her eyes widened. "Three months?" The words barely made it past his lips, breath hitching in disbelief.
Before the silence could settle, the President scoffed.
"You're lucky," he muttered, folding his arms.
"Boy, no one survives that kind of fall. If it weren't for your mother's endless prayers..." He paused, casting a brief glance at the First Lady.
"Even the doctors had given up."
The air felt heavier.
Three months. A cliff. Prayer warrior. And now...this body.
For a sudden, he shifted, his face tightening.
There was an uncomfortable pressure building-low, just above his groin. Strange. Heavy. Full.
He blinked, confused.
The woman beside him noticed his discomfort. "What is it, darling?" she asked, leaning closer with concern.
His voice came hesitant, strained. "I...I think i need to-go."
She blinked, then smiled knowingly. "Ah. You need to relieve yourself."
Before he could respond, she turned her head and called calmy her gaze on one of the aide who had put on military uniform, "Should Sergeant Chris help you up?"
No! No," he said quickly, almost panicked. "I-I can do it myself."
The woman looked back at him, amused but understanding.
She gestured gently to the IV line in his arm. "At least let me remove this first."
With quiet care, she unfastened the drip, murmuring, "Don't worry. I was a nurse, long before all this First Lady business."
Once the tubes were undone, she helped him swig his legs over the edge of the bed.
He stood, slowly, feet steadying under him for the first time in months. The word shifted slightly, but he managed.
The woman stepped back, letting him go on his own.
She watched as he walked toward the bathroom, the door closing behind her.
He stood in front of the toilet, legs slightly parted, one hand braced on the wall.
A strange fullness pressed between her thighs, unfamiliar and urgent.
Slowly, with a breath held in her chest, he lowered his hand...and felt it.
His fingers recoiled, then returned, tracing the shape that didn't belong to the body he remembered.
Heavy.
Thick.
Warm.
Breath shallow, he stood frozen.
Then , the pressure inside gave away, and he let go-unable to stop it. A stream hit the water in the bowl below, echoing against the silence like a confession.
He looked down. The sight was jarring. Stark. Real.
Heavy breath. Eyes wide.
What...what is this?
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The silence spoke for him.
And there, in the small silence of that bathroom, between his legs, something irreversible had taken place.
She was gone.
And he...he would never be the same again.