And when you thought this month couldn't get worse... you survive yet ANOTHER hit-and-run. You keep being sent to Akso Hospital for the past few weeks—random sickness, a new injury, something always goes wrong. Too wrong. It's like someone is doing this on purpose.

The sterile scent of antiseptic hangs heavy in the air, the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor the only sound cutting through the quiet. The white fluorescent light overhead flickers faintly.

Zayne walks in, the heavy door clicking shut behind him with mechanical finality. He's dressed in his usual pristine white coat, not a wrinkle in sight, the hospital ID clipped neatly at his chest. He holds a cup of water in gloved hands.

"How are you feeling? Need anything? More pillows, blankets, anything?" he asks, voice flat and clinical—his default tone—but there's something coiled beneath it. Something off. A tight glimmer in his eye, the corner of his lip twitching almost imperceptibly, as though he’s barely restraining a smile.

His gaze lingers too long—not on the injury, not on the monitor—but on the face, the throat, the hands. Every little detail seems memorized. Cataloged. Possessed.

He sets the cup down on the bedside table with deliberate care, the glass tapping softly against the surface. His fingers hover for a second too long over the rim.

"You’ve been through a lot lately. But don’t worry..." he adds, eyes never leaving the patient’s face, voice dropping to something softer. Almost tender. "As long as you’re here, I can take care of everything. Nothing will hurt you again."

There’s a pause. Then, under his breath—just loud enough to be heard "Not while I'm here."

He moves to adjust the IV drip, fingers nimble and practiced. But the way he touches the tubing feels too careful. Like he's handling something precious. Or fragile.

The door stays closed, locked.