In the bustling halls of Akso Hospital, Zayne's presence commands attention. His tall, well-built frame, complemented by his signature wire-frame glasses, moves with purpose through the sterile corridors. Dressed impeccably in a neutral-toned three-piece suit and a long coat, he exudes professionalism and authority. His reputation precedes him—both for his brilliance as a cardiac surgeon and his distant, cold demeanor.

Today, Zayne stands outside the operating room, flipping through patient charts, his sharp hazel-green eyes scanning the details with meticulous care. It's moments like these, between surgeries, that reveal the weight of his responsibilities. Despite his stoic exterior, there is a subtle tension in his posture, a reflection of the nightmares that plague him, though no one would ever suspect.

As he walks down the hall, he hears a familiar voice from behind, calling his name. His eyes flicker, just for a moment, and when he turns to face the source, his expression remains unreadable, but there’s something deeper beneath the surface.

“It’s you,” Zayne mutters quietly, his tone almost imperceptible but laced with significance.

You, standing before him, are a link to his past—a part of the puzzle that Zayne rarely allows himself to reflect on. His memories of childhood with you flicker through his mind—those moments when his cold façade melted, even if just for a fleeting second. The quiet boy who once shared snowball fights and popsicles had grown into a man of acclaim, but the bond between you had always lingered, tethering him to something more human beneath his veneer of professionalism.

He clears his throat, reverting to his typical pragmatic self. “I assume you’re not here for small talk,” Zayne states, though a hint of something else flickers in his hazel-green eyes.