Chapter 02: There Is No Real Kindness Left, Except in Dreams
It was a nurse, wearing a spotless uniform—tailored scrubs in the hospital's signature dove-gray color that somehow flattered every figure, with the hospital insignia embroidered in silver thread over her heart.
A magnetic name badge—"Jenny"—was pinned perfectly level on her chest, and her professional, polite smile appeared reflexively before her eyes registered the scene before her.
She was a woman about his age, perhaps a bit older—twenty-eight, maybe thirty—with honey-blonde hair pulled back in a neat bun that revealed a slender neck adorned with a delicate silver chain.
Her features were symmetrical, her skin clear and glowing with health that seemed to radiate from within, as if to emphasize everything he had lost.
In a hospital of this caliber, every nurse seemed beautiful and fit, their vitality a stark contrast to the failing bodies they tended, as if daily trips to the gym were part of the job—just like the nurse who now stood before him.
But she stopped, now staring at Lucien lying on the floor. Her professional smile froze, twitched for a moment. "Mr. Lucien?" she said, hurrying over with quick. "Oh no, are you alright?"
It looked so fake, the reaction, but...
How can I even complain? Pathetic... I can't even stand by myself, Lucien thought, resigning himself to being helped by the nurse.
"If you need to use the bathroom, just press this button—here, let me help you," the nurse said, still maintaining that same polite smile that never quite reached her eyes as she gently admonished him.
The singsong quality of her voice suggested she'd delivered this same speech countless times to countless patients.
She opened the bathroom door with one hand while the other supported his elbow, the slight tremble in his limbs contrasting with the steadiness of her grip.
"Do you need assistance?" she asked, eyes squinting slightly in assessment, smile unwavering as a fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting momentary shadows across her flawless complexion.
But Lucien, who had sensed from the beginning that she was only offering as protocol—reading it in the subtle tension of her shoulders, the almost imperceptible step backward she'd already taken in anticipation of his answer—and considering how undignified it would be for a grown man like him to expose his private parts to this stranger with the practiced smile, simply replied, "Thanks," managing a faint smile that felt more like a grimace stretched across dry lips before closing the bathroom door behind him.
"Then please be careful, Mr. Lucien," she called through the door.
Normally, patients shouldn't be left alone in the bathroom—but it seemed the nurse didn't care, allowing Lucien to manage on his own.
The bathroom, of course, was as glamorous as the rest of the room, gleaming under recessed lighting that cast no shadows, as if even darkness was an imperfection not tolerated here.
The touchless flush toilet sat beside a modern glass shower with a rainfall-style showerhead and gleaming chrome fixtures.
As Lucien relieved himself, gripping the metal safety rail with white knuckles to keep his balance on trembling legs, his attention lingered outside the bathroom, drawn to the nurse's voice speaking just loudly enough for him to hear—perhaps deliberately so.
"All of his family died a long time ago. The only way he can pay the bills now is through his parents' insurance." Her words were clear as ice water, each syllable distinct despite the low volume, and Lucien listened carefully to every one.
"Even his relatives have stopped coming and caring for him. So, how do you think he's going to pay the bill?" The nurse was clearly not talking to herself, her voice dropping to that particular pitch people use when discussing something inappropriate yet irresistible—like gossip at a funeral.
"A pity—he's a bit handsome, though. But it's not like we're free labor. Maybe tomorrow, or in a week, he'll be moved to another hospital." The second voice was higher, with a slight nasal quality to it—younger, perhaps, with the callous confidence of someone who hadn't yet learned that tragedy isn't always something that happens to other people.
CLICK!
Lucien emerged from the bathroom, one unsteady step at a time, his fingers trailing along the wall for support as his legs threatened to buckle beneath him.
His eyes squinted against the sudden brightness of the room, adjusting from the softer lighting of the bathroom.
There was another nurse already in the room—younger, with coppery hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that accentuated her sharp features—chatting with the previously professional, smiling nurse.
"Ah, it's Mr. Lucien! Then I'll take my leave, Jenny," the newer nurse said, her lips twitching awkwardly, eyes darting anywhere but to his face as she gathered her clipboard against her chest like a shield.
"All done, Mr. Lucien? Let me help you," said Jenny, still smiling—that same unwavering, practiced curve of lips that never disturbed the professional blankness of her eyes.
She seemed completely unbothered by the conversation she'd just had, moving with the mechanical efficiency of someone performing a task rather than helping a human being.
Not waiting for any reaction from Lucien—as if his opinion on his own body was irrelevant—she guided him back to the bed, one arm supporting his elbow, the other at the small of his back.
The impersonal warmth of her hands seeped through the thin material of his hospital gown as she eased him onto the mattress and pulled the blanket up to cover him, tucking it around his form with brisk, practiced movements.
"Mr. Lucien." This time, instead of leaving with the same indifferent efficiency with which she'd arranged his blankets, Jenny leaned in a little closer, her body casting a shadow over him as she met Lucien's deep frown with an expression that shifted subtly.
The scent of white musk, cotton blossom, and a hint of citrus—fresh, clean, expensive—filled his senses, almost but not quite masking the clinical undertone of antiseptic that clung to her like a second skin.
Her sharp jawline, flawless skin unmarred by worry or hardship, pale pink lips now pressed together in contemplation rather than stretched in a false smile, and half-closed eyes—revealing a hidden, watchful gaze that assessed him like a jeweler appraising a gemstone—were clearly visible in uncomfortable proximity.
"You're already an adult," she whispered, her voice like a devil's promise—soft velvet over steel, warm breath carrying the faint scent of mint against his ear.
Her perfectly manicured fingernails traced a deliberate path from his palm up to his shoulder, each point of contact a cool spark against his skin.
The touch was both professional and deeply inappropriate, lingering just long enough to make its intent clear. "I have an offer. What do you think about… selling your organs?"
The words hung in the air between them, monstrous in their casualness. The distant beeping of a monitor down the hall, the soft whoosh of the climate control system, even the ambient sounds of the city beyond the window—all seemed to fade away, leaving only those terrible words echoing in the silence.
Lucien did not respond immediately; he only stared back, his face momentarily as still as a death mask, eyes unblinking and unnervingly focused.
Then he spoke, wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes as his flat lips curled into a slow, mocking smile that transformed his handsome features into something knowing and strangely powerful despite his physical weakness.
It all mirrored how the nurse kept smiling like that at him.
"Ms. Jenny. Thank you for your offer and your kindness," he said.
The smiling nurse's expression instantly crumbled like a sand castle against an incoming tide.
Her professional smile faded into a flat line, her brow shadowed as she straightened up, pulling away from him with the sudden coldness of someone who has revealed too much of themselves and been rebuffed.
The fluorescent lights overhead caught the subtle tightening around her eyes, the almost imperceptible flare of her nostrils.
"Then I wish you success, Mr. Lucien," she said, each word clipped and brittle as thin ice.
The false warmth had vanished from her voice, replaced by a clinical detachment that seemed far more genuine than her earlier solicitude.
She left without a backward glance.
So, her goal was to profit from my misfortune. How many patients has she approached like this? How patient must she be to take it this far? Lucien mocked silently, laughing to himself—a dry, mirthless sound that scraped against his throat and stirred no joy. The corner of his mouth twitched in bitter amusement, a ghost of his former smile.
But even so, it didn't change the fact that he was now poor. Well—he still had some savings, but not enough to cover even a single night in this expensive hospital with its designer furniture and silent, pneumatic doors.
The irony of being surrounded by such opulence while facing financial ruin wasn't lost on him, the contrast as sharp as the afternoon shadows stretching across his room.
Pride, hah! Mom, Dad, you spent everything preserving your image—so concerned about what others thought, he reflected bitterly.
And now what? You've left me with nothing but debt. Lucien sighed, pressing his lips together until they blanched white, eyes drifting to the window beside his bed, taking in the cityscape where glass towers reached toward the darkening sky like modern monuments to ambition.
The setting sun painted the buildings in shades of amber and gold. His reflection in the window glass stared back at him—a pale ghost superimposed over the glittering city, neither fully here nor there.
Stock or forex trading... it's my only option now, he thought, fingers twitching against the blanket as if already imagining the keyboard strokes that might save or doom him.
The desperate gambit of the truly desperate.
With ALS, at least his brain still functioned—for now—the irony not lost on him that the disease preserved his intelligence while methodically stripping away everything else.
His neurons fired with perfect clarity, trapped in a body that was becoming an increasingly unreliable vehicle.
But eventually even his hands would lose the strength to move, fingers curling inward like wilting flowers, and he'd be trapped, unable to touch anything—unable to execute even the simplest trade, to press even a single key that might alter his fate.
So, in the end, he would gamble—gamble away what little savings he had left, racing against the clock of his own deterioration, hoping to build something before his body completely betrayed him.
His gaze fell on his phone, lying on the table beside him.
He picked it up, the effort making his arm tremble slightly, and turned it on. The cool glass pressed against his fingertips as he swiped through the security pattern—one of the few precise movements his hands could still reliably perform.
As usual with this low-tier device, an ad flashed across the screen before the lockscreen appeared—a novel advertisement featuring a pale, aristocratic figure with blood-red eyes and gleaming fangs. The character stood tall against a gothic backdrop, emanating power and eternal youth, everything Lucien was rapidly losing.
A vampire, huh, Lucien mused, watching the orange sky slowly darken through his window, the last rays of sunlight surrendering to the encroaching night. A creature that could even heal my ALS.
The vampire in the ad seemed to mock him with its physical perfection, its immortality, its impossible promise of renewal.
He chuckled bitterly, the sound rattling in his chest like loose coins. Well, that's a beautiful fiction.
…
It was midnight. Beneath the silver light of the moon that cut through the partially drawn blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the sterile room, Lucien lay with his eyes wide open.
The digital clock on the wall pulsed its red numbers into the darkness—12:00, 12:01—marking the slow crawl of time when sleep refused to come.
His breathing was heavy, labored like that of a man who had run too far for too long, his entire body soaked in sweat that made the expensive sheets cling to his skin like a clammy second skin.
"A—?" His eyes widened in sudden terror as he realized his tongue was as stiff as stone, a useless slab of flesh in his mouth. Panic surged through him like electric current as he tried to reach for the nurse call button, fingers clawing desperately at the air, but—
His body collapsed back onto the bed with a soft thud that seemed to echo in his own ears; his chest, for some reason, stopped rising and falling—frozen mid-breath as if time itself had paused.
The moonlight caught in his wide, unblinking eyes as they darted frantically around the room, searching for help that wouldn't come.
He could only stare in silence as his consciousness gradually slipped away, darkness encroaching from the edges of his vision like spilled ink, the ceiling above him blurring and distorting.
Ah... is this the end? he wondered, his gaze a mixture of disappointment, anger, and, finally... helplessness, emotions flickering across his immobile features like shadows.
Should I have just taken that offer? Sold my kidney? At least... I might have lived... a little longer. That was his last thought, fading like ripples on disturbed water as his consciousness dissolved into nothingness.
Not long after Lucien stopped breathing and his eyes glazed over, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, a woman appeared at the window—not entering through the door but simply materializing there as if she'd always been part of the shadows.
The glass pane slid open without a sound, without her touching it, admitting a gust of night air that carried the scent of jasmine and something metallic, ancient.
"My master... I finally found you..." she whispered, her voice like velvet over broken glass. Tears streamed down her alabaster cheeks, leaving glistening trails that caught the moonlight like diamond rivulets.
Her trembling lips twisted in a forced smile—equal parts sadness and joy, hope and despair.
She wore an elegant, full-length dress, the skirt dark and flowing, a deep blood-red that seemed to absorb the moonlight rather than reflect it, with a fitted, regal jacket to match.
Then, under the silver moonlight that bathed the scene in ethereal radiance, her mouth opened in a quiet sob, revealing long fangs—pearlescent and deadly—as she bent down toward Lucien's neck, her breath cool against his still-warm skin. "I hope... we can reunite again,"
Her fangs slowly pierced Lucien's neck, breaking the skin with practiced precision, the puncture barely visible.
Then she vanished, dissolving into mist that seemed to be absorbed by the moonbeams themselves, leaving behind only the faintest trace of her perfume—something ancient and earthy, like old books and forest loam.
A moment later, Lucien's body jolted violently, arching off the bed as if struck by lightning. His limbs thrashed once, twice, then stilled.
…
Elsewhere, there was nothing but pitch blackness—dark as a black hole, a void so complete it seemed to consume even the concept of light itself.
No up, no down, no sense of direction or time—only the endless, suffocating embrace of absolute darkness.
The rumble of hunger echoed in Lucien's stomach, a primal growl that seemed to reverberate through the emptiness around him, and his throat was so dry it felt as if he'd spent centuries in a desert, parched beyond any human thirst. Such was Lucien's state as he wandered through this world of utter darkness, his hands outstretched, feeling for anything solid in the nothingness.
Hungry.
The word consumed his mind, drowning out all other thoughts, all memories, all sense of self.
It wasn't just a desire for food but something deeper, more visceral—a craving that seemed to emanate from his very cells.
Hungry.
Hungry.
HUNGRY.
Then, suddenly, he heard voices—a crowd's murmur loud enough to cut through the void, the sounds of laughter and conversation muffled as if coming through thick walls—followed by a blinding flash of light that seared his newly sensitive eyes, forcing him to raise a hand in protection.
"Huh? There's a person inside here?" The light faded enough for him to make out shapes, revealing two beautiful women standing before what appeared to be an opened coffin.