In the hospital room, Aizak slept for the first time in weeks.
Naked. Tangled with Ash beneath thin white sheets.
Her warmth pressed against him like proof that he still existed.
For once, his mind was quiet.
No mirrors laughing.
No scars screaming.
Just breath.
Just skin.
Just sleep.
Then the scream tore through the hallway.
A woman's scream—raw, animal, desperate.
Aizak jolted awake, heart racing.
"What… what is that?" he whispered, fingers instinctively brushing through Ash's blonde hair in the dark.
She exhaled, annoyed.
"Probably a patient losing it," she muttered flatly.
Then, without hesitation:
"God, can't they just die already?"
The words hit him harder than the scream.
Aizak froze, confused—staring at her shadowed face.
But he swallowed it down.
Forced a smile.
"Yeah… I guess," he said, lying without effort.
The door burst open.
Another nurse stood there—burnt-brown hair, same age, eyes dead with exhaustion.
"What the hell are you doing?" she snapped. "The doctor's been looking everywhere for you."
Her gaze flicked over the bed.
No shock.
No surprise.
Aizak yanked the sheets up, face burning.
"Can't you knock?!"
"Shut up, pretty boy," she scoffed.
"I'm the one covering her shift while you two were fucking."
Ash sighed and stood—completely naked, unbothered.
The screams outside grew louder.
"Okay, okay," she said calmly, dressing without shame.
"What's with the noise?"
The nurse's face twisted.
"Middle-aged woman having an episode. What was her name…"
She paused.
"…Kayla Ahmed."
Ash stiffened.
"The Ahmed family?" she whispered. "No way."
"You better hurry," the nurse said.
"The doctor's already fighting with the husband."
Ash grabbed her uniform and moved toward the door.
"It won't take long," she tossed over her shoulder.
"See you soon."
The door closed.
Aizak lay there, staring at the ceiling.
"…At least I slept," he murmured.
Ash ran.
Room 645. ICU.
She stopped at the door.
Inside, chaos.
The woman screamed.
The husband shouted.
The doctor barked orders that didn't matter anymore.
"Sir, please calm down!" the doctor pleaded.
"How the hell can I?" the husband roared.
"You're the only one here—what kind of hospital is this?!"
The woman coughed blood, voice shaking.
"It's okay," she whispered weakly.
"Let them work…"
Then—through blood and tears—
"Where's Well?"
The husband grabbed her hands.
"He's coming. Don't worry about that. Focus on breathing."
He stepped outside, brushing past Ash without seeing her.
"Terrifying eyes," she thought.
Not anger.
Fear.
Inside, the nurses worked desperately—blood transfusions, painkillers, futile gestures.
The woman was beautiful, even like this.
Ash hated herself for noticing.
Then the screaming stopped.
Too suddenly.
"Doctor," Ash said sharply, "she's not moving."
"I can see that," he snapped.
"We've done everything. We just pumped her full of painkillers—this is normal."
"You guess?" Ash whispered.
"What?" the doctor barked.
"Nothing, sir."
Outside, the husband screamed into his phone.
"ICU. Room 645. Hurry."
He hung up and returned inside.
The woman whimpered again.
"Well…" she sobbed.
Minutes later, the door slammed open.
A tall, frail boy staggered in—reeked of cigarettes and alcohol.
Well.
His father stood, eyes heavy with disappointment, and stepped outside with the doctors.
"When will she—" the father began.
The doctor looked down.
"Any minute now."
Well stood beside his mother.
Her face was soaked in blood and tears.
She smiled anyway.
"Well… my son."
He took her hand gently.
"It's me, Mom."
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"I couldn't be a better mother."
Blood spilled from her lips.
"I think I'll see your sister soon."
"Tell your brother goodbye for me… I don't want him to see me like this."
Well bit down hard, chains rattling inside him.
"Don't say that."
Her hand trembled.
"You don't have to hold it in," she said softly.
"Cry."
Her hand slipped from his face.
The machines screamed.
Doctors rushed in.
His father stood outside, staring at the floor.
Something inside Well snapped.
A chain broke.
Tears fell.
Then his body followed.
He screamed—childish, broken—as his father dragged him from the room.
"Mom!"
His hands reached for nothing.
His father slammed him against the wall.
"Pull yourself together!"
"You're a man!"
"Men don't cry!"
Well kept crying.
The slap came.
Even then, the tears didn't stop.
His father's tears hit the floor.
Well laughed weakly through sobs.
"What are you smiling at?!" his father yelled.
Well reached out, touching his father's tears.
"…Just cry it out, Dad."
And for the first time—
His father listened.