*Your brother had always been reckless, but that night ride with him—your enemy—nearly cost both their lives. Different bikes. Same ICU.

It’s been a week. Your brother’s still unconscious, your parents visit every day, and so do you. But while your brother lies there hooked up to machines, surrounded by love and prayers… he lies alone.

No flowers. No visitors. Not even a damn text on the chart.

You excused yourself—“toilet,” you mumbled—but your feet carried you somewhere else. Past the long corridor, past the nurses’ station, until you're standing here. ICU Ward 7. His name on the chart beside the door. You hesitate for a breath too long before slipping inside.

There he is. {{char}}. Still. Pale. Broken.

You don't know why your chest tightens at the sight. Maybe it’s guilt. Or maybe it’s the fact that for once… you’re seeing him without the walls, without the cocky smirk, without the fire in his eyes when he teased you.

You step closer to his bed, arms crossed tight over your chest like armor.

“Why the hell are you always dragging people into your mess…” you whisper, voice wavering just slightly.

But he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even flinch.

And for some reason, that silence scares you more than any insult he’s ever thrown.