The injuries from the ordeal at the construction site were healing, though the process felt agonizingly slow. On the surface, the rhythm of life began to reassert itself—bandages were swapped for thinner gauze, the sharp edges of his physical pain were blunted by medication, and the days started to bleed into one another once more. Yet, beneath this veneer of recovery, nothing felt the same.
White's survival remained a harrowing anomaly. If not for the unseen intervention of Bell and the cold, calculated timing of Aisha, he would not have been standing there to retell the story. During his three-day convalescence in the sterile, white-walled hospital room, Shu had meticulously filled in the gaps of his lost consciousness.
According to her account, once Aris's scream had echoed through the skeletal building, the police were already converging on the site. By the time they breached the fifth floor, the criminals were found sprawled across the dusty concrete, lifeless. White had been rushed into emergency surgery, and Aris's family had been notified immediately.
But Aris herself remained a ghost in her own life.
When questioned by authorities, she simply crumbled. No clear, coherent testimony escaped her lips; there were only trembling apologies and the glassy stare of a soul detached from its body. Her guilt weighed far heavier than any suspicion the police harbored. Trauma had sealed her away in a fortress of silence that no legal questioning could breach.
During those three days, Shu, Miss Elsa, and Chris visited often, trying to warm the sterile air with their presence. Yet, Zen remained a glaring absence. White had dialed his number countless times, staring at the screen until it went dark, but silence was his only reward. Perhaps Zen was simmering with a rage so profound it transcended speech; perhaps he simply could not bear to look at the man who had let his sister walk into the jaws of a nightmare.
One morning, Shu arrived carrying a bouquet of lilies and a basket of seasonal fruit. Her face softened with visible relief when she saw White sitting upright, finally untethered from the machines.
"Don't you dare push yourself, White. Recovery isn't a race."
He nodded, though his mind was miles away, trapped in the alleyways of his own regret. "Any word from Zen?"
Her smile faltered and died. "Nothing. He won't answer anyone's calls. He hasn't even stepped foot on campus."
"And Aris?"
Her voice dropped to a somber whisper. "She won't leave her room. She doesn't speak. Her parents are… they're growing desperate."
The weight in White's chest tightened, a physical manifestation of his internal turmoil. It felt as if the wounds were not his alone, but a shared burden that had yet to be acknowledged.
Shu eventually pivoted the conversation. "The police officer who came by yesterday… how did that go?"
White had rehearsed his version of the events a dozen times, smoothing out the jagged edges of the truth. "When I tried to intervene, one of the criminals swung the iron rod at me. I ducked, and it struck his partner instead. The last one panicked, ran toward the ledge, and slipped. That's when the rod pierced his neck."
It was a brittle half-truth. In reality, his memory terminated in the cold dark. Aisha had woven the narrative for him later, providing a version of events that satisfied the investigators. The rod bore only the prints of the attackers, and the police accepted his story as the logical conclusion of a botched kidnapping.
Satisfied with the update, Shu promised to return before departing.
The room sank back into a heavy, suffocating silence. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to lengthen, mocking his stillness. That was when he heard it—a faint, trembling sound from beneath the hospital bed.
"…Sorry…"
Lowering his gaze, White saw Bell's small figure peeking out from the gloom. Her translucent form appeared dimmer than usual, as if the light within her was guttering out.
"It's not your fault, Bell," he said, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur. "And what are you doing under there?"
"Hiding." Her crimson eyes refused to meet his.
"From who?"
"From everyone."
"But you know I'm the only one who can actually see you, right?" He offered a small, sad smile, his tone half-teasing.
Slowly, she crawled out, standing by the edge of the bed. But her usual spark—her stubborn, defiant cheerfulness—was gone. She looked as though she were carrying a mountain of guilt that mirrored Aris's own.
White reached out and rested a hand on her head. "Listen to me. The iron rod didn't end me, because you and Aisha were there. I'm still breathing. That's proof you helped me, not the opposite. So, stop hiding. Smile for me."
Bell hesitated, her small hands clenching the hem of her dress. Then, her lips curled faintly upward. It was a fragile, trembling expression, but it was real.
Within a week, White was discharged. The doctor urged him to avoid any physical strain, yet Miss Elsa hovered over him with stern, watchful eyes, fussing over his every movement as if he were made of thin, brittle glass. "It's my turn to repay the debt of your protection," she would remind him whenever he attempted to walk too far or reach for something heavy.
But the gnawing guilt inside him was more persistent than any physical pain. Before he could truly heal, he needed to face the wreckage of his friendships. He needed to find Zen and Aris.
He left Bell in Miss Elsa's charge and navigated the streets to the Zen residence. When Zen's mother opened the door, her eyes softened with instant recognition and a haunting sadness.
"White… it really is you."
"Aunty," he said, bowing his head. "It's been too long."
Tears welled in her eyes as she ushered him inside. "You saved my daughter. No words can match a parent's gratitude for such a thing." She bowed deeply, her voice trembling.
White waved his hand in a frantic gesture of denial. "Please, don't. Aris and Zen are my friends. I couldn't have done anything else."
"I only wish Zen felt the same," she sighed, a look of profound weariness crossing her features.
White winced. "He's avoiding me, isn't he? Calls, school… he's cutting me out."
Her expression darkened. "I don't know what to do. Both my children are drowning in their own separate oceans of pain. And I… I am standing on the shore, unable to reach them."
A wave of shame washed over him. "It's my fault," he murmured. "If I hadn't kept Aris's job a secret, if I had arrived at that construction site sooner… maybe none of this would have happened."
Her head snapped toward him, her gaze sharp. "Enough. Do not chain their pain to yourself." Her words were biting, yet they carried the fierce, protective instinct of a mother refusing to let blame consume yet another soul.
White swallowed the lump in his throat and straightened his posture. "Then… let me try speaking to Aris. Please."
Her eyes softened again, yielding. "Yes. If there is anyone left in this world she might still listen to, it is you."
He stood before Aris's bedroom door. The wood felt cold, a barrier between him and the girl he had failed. He knocked once, lightly.
"Aris? It's me. White."
Silence.
"I know you're in there. I don't want to ask for much—just open the door for a second. Please."
Another long, agonizing pause. Then, the faint, rusted creak of the door easing open a few inches.
The room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun. Aris sat curled into a ball on the edge of her bed. Her eyes, usually blazing with a stubborn, radiant brightness, were now swollen, bloodshot, and rimmed with angry red.
Her voice was a mere husk when it left her: "…White?"
"Yeah," he stepped slowly into the shadows of the room. "I came to see you and Zen."
Her head shook sharply, violently. "There's nothing left to say." Her voice cracked like glass under immense strain. "Everything is ruined."
The words hung in the stale air. Then, the dam broke.
"If I had listened to you that day… if I hadn't left the shop early, if I hadn't lied about that job… none of this would've happened! I lied to my parents, to Zen, even to myself! And because of my idiocy—you nearly died! It's all my fault."
The room seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in on them. White reached a hand toward her, desperate to anchor her, but she flinched away.
He whispered, "Aris, listen—"
"No!" she cut him off with a burst of raw, agonized noise. "Don't you dare try to comfort me! Don't you tell me storms pass. Reality doesn't change because you're kind. I caused this nightmare. I destroyed everything."
Her voice shattered into jagged sobs, and she buried her face in her trembling hands.
White stood there, his heart aching at a truth he could not deny, yet could not allow to be her final chapter. Slowly, he lowered himself to the floor, sitting beside her in the suffocating darkness.
"Aris," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe you're right. Maybe mistakes were made. But listen to me… mistakes aren't the end of the road. They're just scars. Scars don't mean we can't heal—they are just reminders of where we've been. The truth is… no one here blames you but yourself."
She peeked through her fingers, her eyes glistening. "But… how can I ever forgive myself?"
He placed a hand gently over hers, feeling the coldness of her skin. "You don't have to. Not today. Just allow yourself to keep breathing. That's enough—for now."
The silence that followed was no longer empty. For the first time since that night, Aris didn't turn away.