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*Knock knock.*
The quiet sound broke the stillness of the hospital room. A soft whoosh followed as the sliding door opened, revealing a man in a crisp white coat. It was the doctor.
On the bed, a young boy sat hunched over his phone, tapping away absentmindedly. His eyes lit up the moment he saw who it was.
"Mis—er, Doctor!" he called out, a grin spreading across his face despite the slip of the tongue.
The doctor chuckled under his breath, a warm, familiar sound as he stepped inside.
"Still glued to that phone, huh?"
He teased gently, walking over.
"Though I'm afraid there's still no internet in this place."
He ruffled the boy's hair affectionately, fingers brushing through soft strands with practiced care.
The boy giggled, leaning into the touch without looking up from his screen.
"It's okay," he said cheerfully. "I can still play without it!"
"What are you playing, anyway?" the doctor asked, scooting a little closer to the edge of the bed, curiosity piqued.
The boy angled the screen toward him, and the doctor caught a glimpse — a whirlwind of shadowy creatures, glowing health bars, and frantic explosions of color. The game was dark and intense, clearly centered around relentless monster battles.
The doctor blinked, slightly overwhelmed. It was a far cry from anything he'd ever played. Truthfully, the last game he remembered enjoying was Space Impact — on his old Nokia, nearly two decades ago.
"It looks… intense," he said, half-laughing.
The boy beamed. "Wanna try? It's really fun!"
Without waiting for an answer, he held out the phone, eyes shining with anticipation.
The doctor hesitated, then chuckled and took the device, holding it like something delicate.
"Alright, but I make no promises."
As soon as the game resumed, chaos unfolded. The screen exploded with movement — monsters charging from all directions, snarling and lunging. The doctor tapped randomly, swiping wildly across the screen, unsure of what any of the icons meant.
"Wait, what does this one do? Am I… healing them? Oh no—"
Too late. A massive beast dealt a final blow. The doctor's character crumpled dramatically in defeat. Game Over blinked across the screen with cruel finality.
"PFFT-"
The boy burst into laughter, clapping his hands.
"You died so fast!" he teased through giggles. "You were supposed to attack, not wave at them!"
The doctor laughed, rubbing the back of his neck with an embarrassed grin.
"Ahaha.."
"Guess I'm a bit out of my depth. Sorry, I think I just made your hero look bad."
Still laughing, the boy took the phone back with a shake of his head.
"It's okay. You'll get better — maybe. Someday."
A few quiet moments passed, filled only by the soft beeping of the monitors and the distant murmur of hospital life beyond the door.
Then came a gentle knock.
A nurse stepped in, her expression calm but serious.
"Doctor… it's time."
The doctor stood slowly, his smile faltering just for a moment.
"...Yes."
He turned to the boy, unsure of what to say. Words clung to his throat, unwilling to surface. He'd done this a hundred times — said the right things, offered the right reassurances — but this time felt different. He wasn't just a patient. He was this kid. Bright-eyed. Brave. And far too young to face odds like these.
But before the doctor could even gather his thoughts, the boy beat him to it.
"Here,"
he said, holding the phone out with both hands, his grin as wide as ever.
"Try to clear at least one level while I'm gone, alright?"
The doctor blinked, taken aback.
"You're giving me the controller this time?"
"Yup!" the boy said, cheerfully.
"You're gonna need the practice. You were terrible earlier."
The doctor chuckled weakly, accepting the phone like it was something sacred.
"I'll… do my best."
"You better. When I wake up, I wanna see at least one boss down. Deal?"
He extended a small pinky. The doctor stared at it for a moment before hooking his own around it, sealing the promise.
"Deal."
The boy's expression softened for just a second. "It's just surgery, Doc. You look more scared than me."
He said it with a wink, like he was comforting him, not the other way around.
And then the nurse gently guided the bed out of the room, the boy waving with his free hand as he disappeared down the hallway — his voice echoing faintly behind him.
"Don't mess it up, okay?"
Left alone, the doctor stood in silence, the boy's phone cradled in his palm. The waiting room felt colder now, emptier. He stared at the game's home screen for a long while, his thumb hovering over Start — but it wasn't monsters he was afraid of facing.
The waiting room was unnervingly quiet, shadows stretching long as the sun sank behind the horizon. The doctor sat slumped on the bench, eyes fixed on the floor, the boy's phone cold and heavy in his hand. The game over screen mocked him with its finality.
"How did I mess this up so badly?"
His mind hammered itself. "I couldn't even find the words to tell him it would be okay."
The boy's pancreatic cancer had been terminal from the start. There was no cure. No miracle. But still… still the doctor felt like he'd failed.
"I was supposed to be the one giving him hope. Instead, he was the one reassuring me."
He remembered how the boy smiled bravely
"Don't worry, Doc. You gotta finish at least one level before I come back!"
"How did a kid fighting for his life carry more strength than the person trained to save him? "
He grits his teeth , a tear streamed down his cheek.
"I couldn't even say a proper goodbye. I couldn't tell him to be brave, couldn't hold his hand right. What kind of doctor am I?"
The phone weighed heavy in his hand, the silent game over screen a cruel reminder of his helplessness.
The guilt never really went away. It just settled in—quiet, constant, like a weight he couldn't shake. After the boy died, something in the doctor changed. He kept showing up to work, doing his rounds, smiling when he had to. But inside, he was running on fumes.
Three months later, he filed for early retirement.
He was 58. Not old, not young—just done. He told the board it was time to focus on his health, maybe travel, take care of things he'd put off. But the truth was simpler: he didn't have it in him anymore.
He couldn't stop thinking about the kid. About how he'd sat there with a grin on his face, handing over his phone like it was just another day. About how he, a doctor with decades of experience, couldn't find one damn thing to say that mattered in the end.
He didn't burn out overnight. It was more like watching a light dim slowly, day by day. The hospital started to feel colder. The noise, the routine, the patients—it all blurred together.
So he walked away. Not because he had a plan. Not because he knew what was next. But because he needed the silence. He needed time to figure out how to live with everything he couldn't fix.
The doctor didn't bother turning on the lights when he got home. He slipped off his shoes, dropped his bag by the door, and headed straight for the bedroom. No unpacking, no dinner. Just the bed.
He lay down flat on his back, staring at the ceiling like it might give him something—an answer, maybe, or at least a reason.
After a while, he reached over and pulled the boy's phone from his bag. It was still there, tucked exactly where he'd left it, untouched for weeks. He held it in his hand, thumb hovering near the power button.
But he didn't press it.
He couldn't. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was fear of the memories it held—the game, the messages, the last piece of a kid who was far too brave for his own good. Whatever the reason, he set the phone on his chest and closed his eyes.
His thoughts blurred, heavy and slow, until they faded completely. Sleep took him before he realized it.
.
.
.
A sudden chill jolted him.
The warmth of the bed was gone. In its place, a biting cold seeped into his skin. He was lying face down, chest pressed against something wet and heavy. He couldn't breathe right—his body felt pinned, like the ground itself was holding him in place.
"Just a dream"
he told himself.
"Wake up"
And so he did.
But the world he opened his eyes to wasn't his bedroom.
He was lying in mud. Thick, cold, clinging to his clothes, his hands, his face. Rain poured steadily from a gray sky, and a dense mist swallowed everything beyond a few meters. The air smelled like damp earth and something else—something old.
"What the fuck…?"
he whispered, pushing himself up with a grunt. The wet soil sucked at his limbs as he stood, unsteady and shivering.
He looked around, disoriented.
"Hello?!"
he shouted, his voice cracking and echoing faintly into the fog.
No response—at first.
Then, movement.
Not far ahead, a shape. Humanoid. Standing. Moving, slowly, just like he was. Relief surged through him.
He started toward it, trudging through the mud, eyes locked on the figure.
It was coming closer too.
"Excuse me—do you know where we are?"
he called out, trudging forward through the mud. The figure ahead was slow-moving but unmistakably human in shape, its posture slouched, limbs dragging slightly. Even in the thick mist, it looked like a person.
Right up until it didn't.
As he closed the distance, the details came into focus—and something was horribly wrong.
The skin was peeling off in patches, hanging in loose, wet strips. The eyes were glazed over, clouded and empty. Its flesh was riddled with crawling things—small, white, squirming. Larvae.
His breath caught.
That's not human.
But he realized it too late.
With a sudden burst of unnatural speed, the thing lunged at him. He barely had time to react before it slammed into him, knocking him backward into the mud. Panic surged through his chest like a lightning strike.
"Aaaaack!!! What the hell are you?!!!"
He screamed, struggling under its weight, hands clamping onto its rotting shoulders as they crumbled under his grip.
HUFF..! HUFF..! HAA..! ACK!!
"GET OFF!! GET OFF ME!!"
It was strong. Too strong for something so dead.
It snapped its jaw inches from his face, a grotesque sound of bone and spit. Maggots spilled from its mouth, landing on his cheek, squirming. The stench—rot, decay, death—hit him like a wave and nearly made him retch.
He almost lost his grip—but he held on, knuckles white, adrenaline kicking in. Survival screaming through every nerve.
This was no dream.
This was real.