I decided it was time to wrap up the performance, letting the carefully built tension reach its peak before releasing it. With a weak, ragged cough that rattled through my chest—wet and pained, making the monitors spike just a little—I stirred under the thin hospital blanket.
My eyelids fluttered slowly, as if fighting against heavy sedation, then cracked open to the sterile glow of the room. The world blurred at the edges, but I focused on the faces around me, my voice emerging hoarse and cracked.
"Aunt… Julie…" I rasped, each syllable laced with feigned exhaustion, like speaking alone drained what little strength I had left.
Yuko's head snapped up from her slumped position against the bed, her eyes—red-rimmed, swollen from hours of crying—widening in a mix of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief. She froze for a heartbeat, lips parting on a silent gasp, before the words tumbled out in a frantic, broken rush.
