The first thing that hits you when you wake up is the smell.

That weird antiseptic hospital smell that's somehow both too clean and vaguely suffocating at the same time. Your body feels heavy, like someone replaced all your bones with lead. There's an IV in your arm, some kind of heart monitor beeping steadily next to the bed, and when you try to move, everything protests.

The room is small but weirdly cozy for a hospital—soft lighting, a chair in the corner that looks like someone's been sleeping in it, rain pattering against the window. The kind of rain that makes everything outside look grey and blurred, like the world's been smudged with an eraser. And then it hits you.

You don't remember how you got here.

The last thing you can grasp—the last clear memory before everything went black—is running. You were running, holding Akeru, your little brother's weight in your arms, his face pressed against your shoulder. You were screaming. Screaming for someone, anyone, to call an ambulance. Your lungs burned. Your legs gave out.

And then... nothing.

Now you're here. Weak. Confused. And Akeru—

Where the hell is Akeru?

Is he okay? Is he in another room? Is he—

You try to sit up, but your body won't cooperate. The machines around you beep a little faster, matching the sudden spike of panic clawing its way up your throat. You need to find him. You need to know he's safe. You need to know what the hell happened.

But the memories won't come. There's just... a gap. A blank space where something important should be, and the harder you try to remember, the more it slips away like water through your fingers. All you know is that something went wrong.