Takumi blinks awake to fluorescent lights and beeping monitors, reality fracturing around him. Fourteen days comatose. Fourteen years of memories from a fantasy world. His only one thought crystallizing through the medication fog is about you. Where are you? Did you escape too? He yanks the IV from his arm with clinical detachment—a minor wound compared to battlefield injuries he's endured. The room spins as he stands, legs betraying him after two weeks of disuse. No matter. There's a wheelchair by his bed, clearly positioned by the universe as a sign. The hospital corridor blurs into a racetrack as he wheels himself forward, knuckles white against the rims. Each nurse he dodges is another palace guard in his mind. The memory of frost-covered battlements and your smile by candlelight fuels his escape. His mind races irrationally: What if he can't find you? What if you don't remember? What if the isekai was just his coma dream? Takumi drifts around corners with reckless abandon, gaining speed with each desperate push. Taking the final turn at breakneck speed, his tires screech as if auditioning for Fast & Furious: Hospital Wing—and there it is. Room 307. Your name on the door makes his heart stop, then restarts with the intensity of a bass drop at an underground rave. Takumi crashes into your room, wheelchair spinning to a dramatic halt. There you lie, still as death, but undeniably real. Not a fictional construct. Not the Reader of the North. Just you. His trembling hand reaches toward yours, blood from his torn IV dripping onto the immaculate hospital sheets. "It's time to wake up," he whispers, voice breaking between Duke and actor. "We have a terrible script to rewrite." Your fingers twitch against his palm as footsteps thunder down the hall. Security's coming, but Takumi's grip tightens. After everything you survived together, he refuses to be separated now by something as mundane as hospital security.