The fever had finally broken.
It wasn't dramatic, no gasping recovery or cinematic awakening—just the slow, steady return of clarity. The kind that arrived like dawn: soft and sure, replacing the heat of delirium with the fragile light of awareness.
Ren stirred beneath the covers, blinking slowly. His lashes were damp, his cheeks pale and gaunt, but his eyes had regained some of their usual sharpness. They fluttered open to a soft, filtered light drifting through linen curtains. It took a moment for his mind to register the unfamiliar ceiling.
He shifted.
Pain bloomed in his muscles like echoes of war.
His throat was parched, his wrists still raw beneath the careful bandages. Every part of him ached—but he was alive. And in one piece.
Then he smelled something faint but familiar—clean cotton, lavender, and miso soup.
A shadow moved beside the bed.
"Ren," Aika's voice said gently. "You're awake."
He turned toward her, his eyes following the sound. She sat beside the bed, not in her usual tailored suit but in a simple oversized hoodie and loose pants, her hair tied back in a messy bun. She looked almost like… her younger self. Something about the way she leaned forward, her brows furrowed in concern, made his heart stutter.
"You've been out for a while," she said, placing a tray on the small side table beside him. "Your fever broke this morning. I thought you might want something light."
Her voice was casual, but her eyes flicked over his face like she was still checking for signs of danger.
He tried to speak. His voice came out hoarse.
"…You… you brought me back here?"
She nodded. "I couldn't risk taking you to a hospital. Not with what you've uncovered. Not when we don't know who's watching."
He managed a small, shaky smile. "So you… really did come for me."
Aika looked away, just for a second.
"You don't leave people behind," she murmured, almost too quietly to be heard.
She reached for the spoon and held it out to him, but his wrists trembled too much. She didn't say a word—just silently helped him sit up, carefully positioning the pillows behind his back, then began feeding him small bites like it was the most normal thing in the world.
He tried to thank her between sips.
She waved him off. "Rest. Talk later."
The next few days passed in quiet rhythms.
She tended to his wounds, helped him with meals, made sure his medications were taken on time. Each day, he grew a little stronger. The swelling in his wrists began to ease. The bruises along his ribs faded from violent violet to soft yellow. His voice regained its warmth.
One afternoon, while Ren was asleep, Aika slipped out with her keys and drove to the office.
There was something she hadn't had time to grab when she looking for him.
The server room.
She scanned every hallway like a silent ghost, retraced her steps from the night she followed her instinct. Eventually, she reached the cold, dim-lit room. It was just as she remembered it—too clean. Too untouched.
But then, in the far back corner, behind a metal cabinet, something caught her eye.
A wheel.
She stepped closer—and there it was. His wheelchair. Abandoned. Hidden deliberately where no one would find it.
Aika stared at it for a moment. Rage flared in her chest, bright and immediate.
She grabbed it, folded it into the trunk of her car, and brought it home.
By the time Ren was strong enough to sit up on his own, the chair was waiting by the side of the bed.
He blinked when he saw it, a strange silence settling over him.
"You found it?" he whispered.
"I never stopped looking."
He didn't cry. But the way his hand gripped the armrest told her more than words ever could.
By the end of the week, he insisted on going back to his own apartment.
"I need to be in my space," he said gently. "You've already done too much. I can handle things from here."
Aika didn't argue. She simply nodded and helped him dress.
When they reached his apartment building, she parked close and carefully wheeled him up. Ren held back a wince every time his arms strained to shift or turn. The damage from the bindings was still healing.
Inside, his space was sparse but meticulously organized. Neutral tones. Modular furniture. A work desk with several monitors, wires coiled like digital vines.
She helped him settle into his chair by the window, propped open just enough to let the breeze in.
"I'll make tea," she said, stepping into the kitchen. "Maybe soup if you have anything edible."
He chuckled. "Check the top shelf. That's the 'Aika might visit one day' shelf."
She arched an eyebrow. "That's oddly specific."
But her smile faded as her eyes wandered over the rest of the apartment. On the corner of the desk, half-buried under a stack of tech journals, was a familiar object—a black notebook with worn edges, corners frayed from years of use.
She reached for it, drawn by instinct more than intent.
Her fingers froze the moment she opened it.
Her.
On the very first page.
Drawn in delicate pencil strokes.
Not stylized or fantastical—but raw and real. Her standing at the edge of a rooftop, fists clenched. Another—her kicking an upperclassman midair. Her laughing. Her sitting quietly under a tree.
Page after page.
Aika flipping through each one slowly, as if turning them faster might break something fragile.
The sketches weren't perfect. Some were rough, others carefully inked. But all of them held something unmistakable:
Love.
Not obsession. Not fantasy.
Memory.
Longing.
Years of silent admiration captured in graphite.
She kept flipping until she reached a page near the end.
A girl crouching beside a boy with glasses, his head bleeding slightly, her hand on his shoulder.
And at the bottom, in small, uneven writing:
"You again."
Her breath caught.
She closed the book slowly, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
So many years.
So many questions.
And now… this.
When she returned to the living room, Ren was half-dozing in the chair, eyes closed, sunlight warming his skin.
She stood in the doorway for a long time.
Notebook pressed gently to her chest.
How many years can a heart wait—before the silence finally speaks?