The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly, casting a pale glow across the stark white walls of the hospital room.
The monitors beside the bed beeped steadily.
Leo lay motionless, wrapped in sterile white sheets, his chest rising and falling slowly—mechanically. A bandage was tightly wrapped around his side, the place where the knife had entered. His jacket and shirt had been cut away during the emergency, and now only a clean hospital gown covered his bruised body.
His face was unnaturally calm, his messy hair damp from sweat, lips slightly parted as if caught between a dream and a nightmare.
It had been hours since he was brought in.
The doctors had done their part.
Now… all anyone could do was wait.
---
Raka sat outside the room, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together.
His leg bounced restlessly.
They had been lucky. Or maybe not.
Leo had lost a lot of blood. Too much. The doctors said he was stable—for now. But no one could predict when he would wake up.
Raka kept replaying the scene in his mind.
The shout.
The knife.
Leo falling.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Damn it, Leo... you idiot," he muttered under his breath.
---
The hallway remained quiet except for the occasional shuffle of nurses' shoes.
Until the elevator dinged.
Raka didn't look up at first. Hospitals always had people coming and going.
But then he heard footsteps—measured, calm, unfamiliar.
And a voice.
"Excuse me. Is this room 315?"
Raka looked up.
Standing before him was a tall man in his late forties, dressed neatly in a dark grey suit. His expression was unreadable, calm but sharp. Beside him stood a girl with long, dark hair and headphones resting around her neck.
She didn't look at Raka.
She didn't look at anything, really.
She just stared straight ahead, emotionless, cold—like a porcelain doll in a glass case.
"Yes, this is his room," Raka replied, standing instinctively. "Are you… family?"
The man offered a tight smile. "You could say that."
Without waiting for permission, he opened the door and stepped inside.
The girl followed, silently.
Raka stared at the door for a moment, puzzled.
Something about them felt… strange.
Like they knew Leo.
But Leo never mentioned people like them.
---
Inside the room, the man stood at the edge of the bed, hands in his coat pockets, observing Leo with a quiet intensity.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just studied the boy in front of him as if seeing something long forgotten.
The girl stood at the foot of the bed.
Her eyes finally shifted—down to the boy in the bed.
For a second, there was a flicker of recognition.
Maybe even… concern.
But it vanished as quickly as it came.
She pulled her hoodie sleeves over her hands and looked away.
The man finally broke the silence.
"He hasn't changed much."
Clara said nothing.
"He still gets into trouble. Still rushes headfirst into things without thinking."
She glanced at her father. "You know him?"
A soft chuckle. "Of course I do."
There was a pause before he turned to her.
"You were too young to remember. But when you were five, you used to play hide-and-seek in his backyard."
Clara's brow furrowed, just slightly.
"That was him?"
"Yes," her father replied. "Leo Reinhart."
He stepped beside her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Clara," he said softly, eyes fixed on the unconscious boy in the bed, "this is your future husband."
Clara didn't respond right away.
She kept her eyes on the unconscious boy in the hospital bed—on the way his chest rose and fell, steady but shallow, like he was fighting for breath even in his sleep.
"...My what?" she asked quietly, not turning her head.
"Your fiancé," her father said, calm and certain. "The one we arranged for you to marry. Years ago."
The silence between them grew heavier.
Clara blinked, but her expression barely changed. Her voice was flat. "You're joking."
"I'm not."
Still, she didn't turn toward him.
She just kept looking at Leo—at the boy who had somehow haunted her mornings for the past few days without ever speaking a word.
The boy who watched her from a distance, always riding that same loud motorcycle.
The boy who stared like she was something he didn't understand.
Now here he was, unconscious. Pale. Vulnerable.
And apparently... hers?
---
Her father moved a little closer, lowering his voice. "You don't remember him, but the Reinharts were once very close to our family. Leo's father and I made a promise when you two were still toddlers. If one of us had a son, and the other had a daughter, we'd join our families through marriage."
"That's insane," Clara muttered.
"Not in our culture," he replied. "It's tradition. And it wasn't just about business or honor. We trusted each other. We believed our children would grow up under the same values."
Clara finally looked at him, her expression unreadable. "And you never thought to tell me?"
"I didn't think it was necessary," he said. "Not yet."
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
She looked back at Leo, frowning faintly.
"That's why you brought me here?" she asked.
"Partly," her father admitted. "I wanted you to see him."
"He doesn't even know me."
"He will," her father said confidently. "And you'll remember him too. In time."
Clara's hands balled into fists inside her sleeves. She hated this kind of talk—like everything in her life had already been written down without her consent. Like her future was a page in someone else's story.
She looked at Leo again.
He looked so… different now.
Not the cocky biker hovering across the street, not the so-called delinquent everyone whispered about.
Just a boy.
Young. Wounded. Real.
Something unfamiliar stirred in her chest, but she shut it down quickly.
She wasn't here to feel things.
She was here because her father told her to be.
---
"I don't want to get married," she said finally, softly.
"Not now," he replied. "But one day, you may understand why this was meant to be."
Clara closed her eyes briefly, then turned away from Leo's bed.
"I want to go home."
Her father nodded slowly. "Of course."
He turned back to look at Leo one last time.
The room was silent, but in that silence, something was shifting.
Unspoken history resurfacing.
A story trying to wake up.
---
Clara walked out of the room without another glance, her footsteps silent on the hospital floor.
But even as she left, her mind remained there—with the boy she didn't know, but somehow couldn't stop thinking about.
And the question that echoed louder than any answer:
Why him?