The rhythmic beeping of medical monitors filled the room like a soft, persistent echo.
Sterile air. White walls. Dim lights.
And silence — heavy and motionless — as if the world itself was still reeling from what had just happened.
Kenneth groaned softly as his eyes fluttered open. His throat was dry, his head pounding as memories started trickling back — flashes of light, the collapsing building, and that suffocating aura that had pressed down on his soul like the weight of an ocean despite the person who owns such aura left him a while ago.
He exhaled shakily. "I'm… alive?"
His voice came out hoarse and faint.
He blinked several times, the blurry outlines of the room slowly sharpening — white curtains, the scent of disinfectant, and a body lying motionless on the bed beside his.
Jake.
His arm was bandaged, his chest rising and falling steadily. Relief softened Kenneth's expression.
Then the door slid open with a soft hiss.
"Ken!"
