The ambulance cut through the city like a blade, red lights flashing against rain-slick asphalt.
Inside, Wooyoung's body shivered on the stretcher. The medic's hands moved fast—tightening a pressure bandage over his wrist, checking his pulse, adjusting the oxygen mask.
Mrs. Jung clung to the side rail, her nails digging into the metal. Her voice broke again and again as she called his name.
"Wooyoung-ah… baby, stay with me—please, God—"
His skin was cold. So cold it felt as if death were already claiming him.
Beside her, Saeron pressed both hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. Every few seconds, her eyes flicked to the monitor. The line kept dipping.
Stay alive.
Just stay alive hyung.
The siren keened through the night as the city blurred past the windows.
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Jung Mansion.
Rain tapped at the tall windows and inside the house, Mingi sprawled on the couch, phone balanced on his chest, scrolling past photos of people he didn't care about.
Mr. Jung stood by the fireplace, the glow highlighting the hard lines of his face. He didn't look up when the butler announced the call.
"Sir, it's Miss Saeron. She says—"
"I know what she says." He tipped his glass, studying the amber swirl. "Let her scream it into the void if it makes her feel better."
Mingi laughed softly, as if it were all a joke.
"Pathetic. He always needed an audience."
"You're not wrong," Mr. Jung said. "Let the doctors play hero. I have no interest in another performance."
The fire snapped in the grate. Neither of them looked at each other.
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.
The gurney burst through the doors, wheels rattling over the tiles as doctors and nurses in white coats swarmed around it.
"BP dropping!"
"Hang another unit—now!"
Mrs. Jung stumbled after them, half-blind with tears, but someone caught her by the shoulders—Saeron.
"Omma—please—let them do their work—"
She couldn't feel her own hands. Couldn't hear her own voice. All she could see was Wooyoung's face, waxen and still.
A nurse ushered them away from the trauma bay. The door swung shut. For a moment, there was nothing but silence and the faint echo of beeping machines.
Saeron's phone vibrated again. She didn't want to look, but she had to.
Appa.
She answered, voice raw. "Appa, they don't know if he'll—"
His sigh crackled over the line.
"Saeron, stop this hysterics. He wants your pity. That's all."
"He was dying!"
"He does this because you all keep letting him," Mr. Jung said calmly. "Next time, maybe he'll learn that actions have consequences."
The call disconnected and her hand trembled so badly she nearly dropped the phone.
He's your son, she thought, her heart slamming against her ribs. How can you watch him die like this and call it a performance?
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ICU Waiting Room.
Hours passed and the storm outside swallowed the city.
Mrs. Jung hadn't moved from the same chair. Her face looked hollow, lips moving silently in prayer.
Saeron stared at the door, unable to sit, unable to breathe.
Finally, it swung open. A doctor stepped out, his expression a careful mask.
"He's alive," he said, and the words collapsed her knees.
"But listen to me—" The doctor's voice sharpened. "This was a cry for help."
Mrs. Jung raised her face, eyes rimmed in red. "Will he—will he wake up?"
"He will," the doctor said. "But you must understand—this is not over. Whatever broke inside him isn't gone. And if nothing changes, next time, he will succeed."
Silence pressed down like a weight.
"Does he have anyone he trusts?" the doctor asked.
Saeron stepped forward, her voice shaking. "He has me and my mother. We are always here for him."
The doctor nodded once. "Then you need to be ready. He will be fragile when he wakes. Angry. Afraid. Don't leave him alone."
Mrs. Jung wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I won't. Not again."
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.
In the ICU Room, machines beeped in a slow, steady rhythm.
Wooyoung lay under the white sheets, eyes closed, lips tinged grey.
Mrs. Jung sank into the chair at his bedside, reaching to cup his cold cheek.
"I'm here," she whispered. Her tears fell onto his skin. "No more pretending. No more turning away. You hear me?"
She pressed her forehead to his hand.
"You are not alone. Not anymore."
Saeron watched from the doorway, her own heart breaking open.
"Oppa," she whispered, voice cracking. "If you ever come back to us, I swear I'll never let you forget that you matter."
Outside, dawn was breaking—a thin grey light that turned the hospital windows to mirrors.
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Elsewhere in a quiet room. A single desk lamp glowing over neat stacks of papers. Choi San leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. He watched the rain slide down the glass.
"So the golden boy has finally reached the edge," he murmured, almost to himself.
One of his men standing in the shadows didn't speak.
San's mouth curved into a slow, thoughtful smile.
"Keep an eye on the hospital. I have a feeling this… tragedy will be useful."
His eyes glinted cold.
"And when he wakes, I want to be the first to know."
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To Be Continued…