The soft hum of machines and the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filled the operating room.
The air was sharp with disinfectant, the temperature cool enough to make even the steadiest hands want to tremble.
But Akihiko's didn't.
He stood near the patient, now sedated under general anesthesia, his expression focused and utterly composed beneath the mask and surgical cap.
The overhead lights bathed the operating field in sterile white light, illuminating the wound site on the patient's leg.
Kei stood across from him, arms folded, acting as a surgical supervisor—though it was more symbolic than necessary.
After all, Akihiko didn't need anyone to hold his hand.
Kei's eyes narrowed in observation, but his presence wasn't the only one watching.
A few interns had been granted special permission to observe the return of the "Ice Prince"—a title Akihiko despised but couldn't shake.
"All right, Dr. Nakamura." the scrub nurse said gently, placing the final tool into his gloved hand. "Everything's ready when you are."
Akihiko didn't speak at first.
He scanned the chart on the adjacent screen one last time, then turned to the anesthesiologist. "Vitals?"
"Stable." came the immediate reply. "Blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen levels are all within the safe range."
Akihiko nodded, his voice cool and clear. "Let's begin."
With surgical precision, he made the initial incision.
Blood welled up, quickly blotted away by the assisting nurse.
For the first few minutes, the room was silent, save for the sounds of suction and metal tools being passed from hand to hand.
But even the quiet carried weight—every movement was deliberate, every command calm and sure.
Akihiko's hands moved like he'd never left.
Controlled.
Clean.
Unshakable.
Kei watched with quiet pride.
The patient had sustained a traumatic laceration to the lower thigh, complicated by necrotic tissue around the wound from improper first aid.
A simple debridement on paper, but not without its risks.
"Forceps." Akihiko said.
They were handed to him instantly.
"Scalpel."
He worked swiftly but with care, excising the dead tissue with practiced ease, preserving the healthy structures underneath.
The resident standing nearby whispered under his breath to another, "I've never seen anyone work so fast and so clean."
Akihiko didn't even flinch at the comment.
He was already several steps ahead, his focus was absolute.
"Wound margins are viable." He finally said after another ten minutes. "No signs of infection. Proceeding to irrigation."
As the assistant irrigated the wound, Akihiko glanced at the monitors again—just a quick double-check.
It was unnecessary, but he never allowed complacency to creep in, not even for a second.
Once the wound was thoroughly cleaned, he applied the vacuum-assisted closure device with deft hands and secured the area with gauze and sutures.
Finally, he stepped back, his eyes sharp beneath his cap.
"Procedure completed. No complications. Close monitoring recommended for the next 24 hours."
A breath seemed to release across the entire room.
The anesthesiologist began prepping for reversal.
One of the interns whispered, "So that's what Kei meant when he said we were getting a legend back…"
Akihiko peeled off his gloves slowly, one at a time, and dropped them into the disposal bin. Then he glanced across the table at Kei.
"I trust that-that covers my first shift?"
Kei laughed, unable to hide his amusement. "You're such a show-off."
Akihiko didn't smile, but the glint in his eyes was unmistakable. "You started it."
They exited the OR together, Kei clapping a hand on his back. "Come on. You've earned coffee. My treat."
Akihiko raised a brow. "I thought you were offering a foot massage."
Kei groaned. "Don't push it."
As they disappeared down the hallway, a couple of nurses passed by, whispering among themselves again.
"He really is back." one said, eyes wide. "Dr. Nakamura didn't lose his edge at all."
The other nodded. "No wonder Dr. Yamamoto did the prep himself. He knew it would be flawless."
------
Back at the Publishing House, in Daiki's Office...
The tension in the air was almost tangible.
Daiki's office, usually filled with light banter and the faint scent of coffee and old books, felt unnaturally silent—heavy, like a storm about to break.
Ayaka and Makoto sat across from Daiki's desk, their eyes fixed on the crisp, cream-colored folder resting between them.
The folder hadn't been opened yet, but the weight it carried was unmistakable.
Ayaka's brows were furrowed, her posture straight and rigid.
Makoto, seated beside her, kept glancing between her and their editor, clearly uncomfortable.
Finally, Ayaka spoke.
Her voice was calm, but clipped.
"What do you mean by this?"
Daiki raised a brow, leaning back in his chair. "What do you mean, what do I mean? It's a contract."
"I can see that." Ayaka said, her tone is sharper now. "But why are you showing it to me?"
Makoto cleared his throat and slowly flipped the folder open.
The pages inside were neatly clipped—too neat, too deliberate.
Ayaka leaned in just enough to read the bold title at the top: "Official Collaboration Agreement – Moonlight Sonata & Ms. Midnight."
Her breath caught.
"The fans have been waiting." Daiki said, his voice full of that trademark enthusiasm that usually charmed authors into submission.
"You've teased this collaboration for years now. I think it's finally time we give them what they want."
Ayaka straightened, arms folded over her chest. "And you decided this... when?"
Makoto hesitated. "I didn't know he'd—"
"I don't think we should force—" Makoto began, his voice gentle but firm.
"Nonsense!" Daiki cut in with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"You've waited long enough for Yamamoto. It's been what? Three years now? And you're not dating anyone. He's not dating anyone. You're both single. And compatible. It's perfect!"
"No." Ayaka said firmly, not missing a beat.
The room fell silent.
Daiki blinked, his expression faltering. "No?"
Ayaka met his gaze directly. "I'm not doing it. I already told you, I'm not comfortable with collaborations."
Daiki leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk. His tone turned stern. "Are you defying me, Ms. Yamamoto?"
Makoto tensed beside her.
Ayaka rose from her chair slowly, her voice measured but laced with steel. "Mr. Takahashi, I already went out of my comfort zone for the past project. I agreed to write a romance novel when it's not even my genre. I delivered everything you asked for. All I'm asking now is for you to respect my decision."
"Collaborations are not shackles!" Daiki snapped. "It's not like I'm asking you two to get married. You're just writing a story together."
"You think it's just writing?" Ayaka's voice rose for the first time, sharp with emotion. "Do you know how personal it is for me? How hard it was just to get through that book without—" She stopped herself abruptly, her jaw tightening.
Makoto glanced at her, worried flickering in his green eyes.
He knew.
He knew exactly what book she was talking about.
"I'm sorry but I refuse." she said after a long pause, quieter now but no less firm. "I can't do it."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and made her way to the door.
"If you need anything else, I'll be in my office." she said over her shoulder, her voice composed again.
The door shut with a soft click.
Daiki sighed and rubbed his temples. "That girl is terrifying when she's serious."
He forced a chuckle, trying to shake off the awkward atmosphere. "Don't worry, Miura! I'll talk to her again once she's cooled down. She'll come around. She always does."
Makoto didn't laugh.
He gave a small, polite smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I-It's alright, Mr. Takahashi. Maybe… maybe it's better if we leave her alone for now."
Daiki leaned back in his chair, already spinning ideas for Plan B. But Makoto remained seated, staring quietly at the contract.
The ache in his chest was something he'd learned to live with.
He had waited.
He was still waiting.
And though part of him longed to stand beside her, to write something beautiful together, the other part of him knew—knew deep down—why she couldn't.
Why she keep her walls up.
Why she couldn't bring herself to start over with someone else.
Because there was still someone else in her story.
Someone whose shadow lingered over every page she wrote.
------
The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the buzz of the publishing floor.
Ayaka stood still for a moment, her back to the door, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
She was no stranger to confrontation—years of battling deadlines, critics, and herself had taught her to hold her ground.
But today's argument with Daiki felt heavier than usual.
Not because of what was said… but because of what she didn't say.
She slowly walked over to her desk, brushing aside a pile of drafts and galleys before dropping into her chair.
The leather creaked quietly beneath her.
Outside the window, the sky was starting to darken, a watercolor of soft gold and pale blue, streaked with clouds.
Rain threatened in the distance, but the light hadn't faded yet.
Ayaka leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling.
"Collaboration..."
Her lips curled slightly—not into a smile, but something like exasperated amusement.
She wasn't new to this game.
She knew how Daiki worked.
The moment she stepped out of his office, she should've known he wouldn't give up.
Right on cue, there was a soft knock.
Before she could answer, the door cracked open and a young secretary—barely older than a fresh graduate—peered in awkwardly. "U-um, Miss Yamamoto… Mr. Takahashi told me to bring this…"
She stepped in just long enough to place the familiar folder on Ayaka's desk.
Ayaka didn't even look at her.
"Thank you." she said flatly.
The girl bowed, mumbled and flustered "Sorry!" as if she were part of a conspiracy, and practically fled.
The room was quiet again.
Ayaka stared at the folder.
It sat there like a challenge.
Or maybe a dare.
She didn't move.
Didn't open it.
Just watched it like it might sprout legs and walk away.
"He really doesn't give up." She stared at the black screen of her laptop.
For a long moment, she didn't move.
Her reflection stared back at her faintly—tired eyes, pale skin, lips pressed in a tight line.
Then, without thinking, she flipped the lid open.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
At first, they typed slowly.
A name.
A setting.
A single, sharp sentence of narration.
And then—
He appeared.
The character.
Not the one she had agreed to write, but the one who refused to stay out of her mind.
Silver hair.
A calculating gaze.
Blue eyes, like the edge of a frozen lake.
Quiet, distant, unreachable.
And yet, every time he looked at the heroine, he seemed to say more than words ever could.
She blinked hard and sat back slightly.
"No. Not him."
But her heart ached anyway.
She typed again.
Tried to change his mannerisms.
Gave him messy black hair.
Made him sarcastic, flirtatious.
The opposite of Akihiko.
But when she reached his dialogue, the words betrayed her.
"If you keep looking at me like that, I might forget I'm supposed to stay away."
She froze.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She hadn't planned that line. It had just come—too naturally.
Too easily.