When the gurney passed, she shot to her feet.
"Doctor… how is he?" Her voice cracked—raw, hoarse from hours of crying.
The doctor (under my influence) answered calmly. "His life is out of danger now. I have to say… he's extremely lucky. If that knife had shifted even an inch to the left, it would have pierced his heart. Fatal. As it is, it was a deep muscle wound—serious blood loss, but no vital organs were hit. We've stabilized him. We're moving him to the private ward for closer monitoring."
Yuko nodded numbly, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. She followed the gurney like a ghost—steps unsteady, eyes fixed on my bandaged form.
In the private ward, nurses arranged pillows, hooked up monitors (all readings faked to look precarious but stable under my control), dimmed the lights, and left with quiet instructions: "He's sedated. Let him rest. We'll check back soon."
The door clicked shut.
I kept my eyes closed, breathing slowly.
