The heavy silence of the treatment room lingered long after the door had clicked shut. Akira sat on the edge of the clinical bed, her eyes fixed on the neat, black sutures tracing a path across her skin. Each stitch was a testament to Naea's skill—and a reminder of her indifference.Akira speaks from behind in a low, cold voice, "Thank you, doctor..." Naea still offers no reaction and simply walks out of the room.
Akira stood up, the movement fluid despite the dull ache in her arm. She adjusted her oversized white shirt, pulling the sleeve down just enough to cover the bandage but not enough to hide the fact that she was a woman who had just survived an attack. She walked out of the room, her charcoal trousers swishing softly against the sterile floors.
𝔻𝕠𝕔𝕥𝕠𝕣'𝕤 ℂ𝕠𝕝𝕕 𝕊𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕥𝕦𝕒𝕣𝕪
Outside in the hallway, the world was moving again. The elderly woman Akira had saved was waiting, her face etched with worry. When she saw Naea exit the ward, she rushed forward.
"Doctor! Is she alright? The wound looked so deep," the woman pleaded, clutching her reclaimed handbag.
Naea stopped. She offered a small, professional smile—the kind that was polite but held no warmth. "She's fine. I've finished the stitches. Just ensure she comes back for a follow-up in a week."
The woman was so relieved she grabbed Naea's hand. "Thank you, Doctor. You're a life-saver. That girl... she was so brave. She didn't even cry out when that monster stabbed her."
Naea gently pulled her hand back, her expression becoming a blank slate once more. "Treating patients is a doctor's duty. I simply did my job."
The elderly woman looked at Naea's porcelain-clear skin and calm eyes. "You are so beautiful, dear. Like an angel sent to this hospital."
Naea didn't blush. She didn't look flattered. She simply gave a tiny, melancholic nod and turned toward the changing rooms. To the world, she was the "Ghost Surgeon," a pillar of perfection. But inside, she was a woman who had learned to survive by feeling nothing at all.Meanwhile, Akira, who had been sitting there in silence, stands up and starts to head out. The elderly lady spots her and asks if her hand is alright now. Akira nods, thanks the lady, and begins to walk away. The old lady doesn't stop her, perhaps sensing that she has traveled a long way and needs to rest.
𝔼𝕔𝕙𝕠 𝕠𝕗 𝕒 𝕊𝕚𝕝𝕖𝕟𝕥 ℝ𝕖𝕛𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟
Akira stepped out of the hospital and into the biting Tokyo air. She didn't bother looking for the old lady or waiting for a thank you. She walked back to the station where the chaos had started. Her luggage was still there, sitting untouched near the railing. In a city like Tokyo, people were often too busy with their own greed to notice a stray suitcase.
She pulled out her phone. It was vibrating with missed calls from the Tokyo Prosecutor's Office. She called back.
"Miss Akira! Where are you? My man was supposed to pick you up an hour ago. Is everything okay?" the voice on the other end was frantic.
"Everything is fine," Akira said, her voice cold and steady. "I had a minor delay. Send the car back."
Ten minutes later, a sleek, black High-end Sedan pulled up. The driver hopped out, bowed deeply, and took her bags. Akira slid into the back seat, the scent of expensive leather doing nothing to calm her racing heart.
As the car wove through the neon-lit streets, Akira opened her messenger app. She went into her settings, scrolling down to a place she hadn't visited in years: Blocked Contacts.
There, at the very top, was one name: Naea.
She closed her eyes, and suddenly, she wasn't in Tokyo. She was back in Osaka, six years ago.
Back then, they were inseparable. Akira had struggled to understand her feelings. Was it friendship? Or was it the kind of love that ruins people? One night, she had finally gathered the courage to send a message.
"I like you. Can you be my forever friend? I promise I won't disturb you. Just... please reply. It doesn't matter if it's yes or no. Just clear it up for me."
Akira had spent the whole night staring at the ceiling. When she checked her phone, the message was marked as 'Seen.' But there was no reply. No "I'm sorry." No "Me too." Just a cold, digital silence.
She had sent one more message, desperate for closure: "Whatever the answer is, clear it now."
Three hours passed. The status remained 'Seen.' Naea had chosen the most brutal form of rejection: Cold Ignorance. That was the day Akira realized that silence is a weapon. She blocked Naea, packed her pride, and moved on. Or so she thought.
𝔽𝕣𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝔹𝕦𝕚𝕝𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘: 𝔸 𝔾𝕚𝕝𝕕𝕖𝕕 ℂ𝕒𝕘𝕖
"Miss Akira, we have arrived," the driver announced.
They were standing in front of the White Frost, a towering high-tech monolith of glass and white marble. "This is one of the most exclusive addresses in the city, ma'am. High-class officers, businessmen, and elite professionals live here."
The building manager met her in the lobby. He was a talkative man, eager to impress the new prosecutor. "Welcome, Miss Akira! Mr. Ujo told me all about you. We have the top judges, the top engineers, and the top doctors living here. We were just missing a top Prosecutor."
He showed her the apartment. It was stunning—minimalist, expensive, and utterly soulless. "The door uses a fingerprint scanner and a passcode. You have access to the gym, the sports club, and a 24-hour swimming pool. There's even a high-end bar on the rooftop."
"I'm tired," Akira interrupted, her voice cutting through his sales pitch. "I'd like to sleep now."
The manager took the hint. He showed her how to use the passcodes and left. Akira stood in the center of the dark living room. She felt uncomfortable, the silence of the apartment feeling too much like the silence Naea had given her six years ago.
𝕍𝕚𝕖𝕨 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔹𝕒𝕝𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕪
She stepped out onto the balcony to get some fresh air. Tokyo at night was a sea of lights, beautiful but distant. She leaned against the railing, her bandaged arm throbbing slightly in the cold air.
Her gaze drifted down to the entrance of the building. A luxury car had just pulled up. Two figures stepped out.
Akira's heart stopped.
It was Dr. Naea. She was still wearing her professional clothes, her hair falling perfectly over her shoulders. Standing beside her was a young, handsome man. He was tall, dressed in a sharp suit, and he moved with the confidence of someone who owned the world.
From this height, they looked like a perfect couple. The "Ghost Surgeon" and her mysterious companion.
Akira watched them, her face a mask of stone. No expression crossed her features, but the grip on the balcony railing tightened until her knuckles turned white.