The patient lay in a hospital tent, secured in bed as monitors displayed vitals that were weak but stable. Medical specialists worked methodically to reduce his pain, inserting an IV line into his vein through which a special serum flowed—perhaps an anesthetic. A respirator supported his breathing, the mask still fastened to his face as air was delivered at a gentle, controlled pressure.

  He had undergone surgery only moments earlier. A doctor remained at his side, maintaining close watch over every fluctuation on the monitors. When he was first discovered, small shards were found embedded throughout his body, and tests revealed traces of a toxic substance in his system. After extensive procedures to remove the fragments and counter the poison, close monitoring became the only viable course of action—to determine whether the patient would recover.

  Positioned at the foot of the bed, Dr. Bhosch, the attending physician responsible for the operation and post-operative care, monitored the patient’s condition via a handheld tablet. As the doctor glanced over at the bedridden patient, he thought aloud about how this kind of situation had happened far too many times over the past few years. Ben—only twenty-four years old—had so much left to live for, far more than what his life had been reduced to now. The doctor had known Ben for years while working at the organisation. He also knew the Director well; the two had been good friends for a long time.

  “Hang in there, buddy…” he whispered roughly.

  As he continued his observation, the cloth flaps at the tent’s entrance swished open. It was the Director himself.

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  The doctor greeted him.

  “How is he?” the Director asked.

  “Stable,” the doctor replied. “We’ve been running tests for a while now… it depends on him—whether he’ll wake up or not.”

  The Director’s gaze settled on Ben, lying motionless in the bed.

  The doctor watched him closely. He could see the uncertainty in the Director’s eyes, narrowed with worry and sadness. It was clear he was deeply unsettled by how things had turned out.

  Usually, operations like this rarely led to incidents—certainly not ones this severe. But this time… this time felt different. The Director clenched his fists.

  “I’ll let you be,” Dr. Bhosch said quietly. “Don’t let your emotions get the better of you. He’ll recover.” The Doctor left the tent.

  The tent was a dark green, half-cylinder shape. At its far end, lights illuminated the patient and the shadowed interior, leaving the entrance dim, almost deliberately so. Transparent and plastic windows on either side were temporarily covered for privacy reasons, and allowed few.

  The Director approached the bed, neither too close nor too far, just far enough to observe with respect. His hands folded low at his abdomen. He said nothing. He stared.

  What goes through a man’s mind in such a moment? Sorrow? Grief? Heartbreak? Perhaps. Tears are rare. It takes a certain hardness, a will forged over years, to let them fall. Not because he lacks feeling, but because he confronts it head-on.

  And yet… here, he wondered, has it become too much?

  Browchain.

  Ehffle.

  Gonnaga.

  Now—Crystalline.

  Which one left the deepest wound?

  He could not answer. Words failed him.

  As he watched over the patient, his thoughts turned to his son. He feared that he had misled him, let him stumble. This was his fault. “Please… don’t die on me,” the Director whispered. “Son…”