She awoke to daylight.
The white curtain by the window swayed gently in the breeze. Sunlight filtered through the fabric, casting soft patterns that flickered across the back of her pale hand.
The burning pain in her stomach had eased a little. Her body still felt hollow and weak, but at least… it no longer felt like it was tearing her apart.
Su Rui lay still, eyes open, staring up at the familiar cracked ceiling. The old ceiling fan above her buzzed as it spun lazily. She moved her fingers—dry, stiff—like someone returning from a storm.
When the doctor came in for rounds, he told her she'd need to stay for observation.
"You can't delay this any longer," he said, flipping through her chart. "A bit of ulceration isn't uncommon, but there's visible inflammation and signs of spasms. You're lucky you got here in time. A little later and…"
He didn't finish the sentence, just shook his head.
She nodded, asking no questions.
She knew she couldn't keep pushing herself. But the truth hit her like a fine, sharp needle—pricking at the pride that had made her believe she was still in control.
After the doctor left, she leaned back against the pillow and closed her eyes.
From the bed beside hers came muffled conversation between a patient and a nurse. The voices were quiet, but every word reached her ears with startling clarity.
"Did you hear? This morning on the seventh floor—someone from the media tried to sneak in and got caught."
"Seriously? Sneak in to see who?"
"Su Rui! That actress who collapsed on the red carpet. She's still here—been unconscious for two weeks now. My friend's a nurse on that floor. Says she just lies there like there's no soul left in her. The hospital's been keeping it quiet."
Su Rui froze.
She turned her head slowly and stared at the IV bag beside her, watching the fluid drip, drip, drip into the tube.
Her fingers clenched the bedsheet.
This hospital.
Her body—her real body—was here.
Not in some distant city.
Not tucked away in some private VIP facility.
Just a few floors above—or below—this one.
She felt a chill run down her spine, like someone had pulled her out of cold water.
No one had told her.
No one had said a word.
She and "herself" were this close… and yet worlds apart.
She threw off the blanket and quietly slipped on her coat. Her legs still unsteady, she slid into her slippers and stepped out into the hallway.
The air outside was cool. She paused at a corner in the corridor, hand braced against the wall.
Then she saw it—the door to the intensive care unit.
A sign on the door read "No Visitors." Two nurses were standing nearby, quietly finishing a shift change.
Su Rui held her breath and waited. When they moved away, she stepped toward the door—slowly, carefully, each step deliberate.
The door hadn't closed all the way. A narrow slit remained.
She leaned in, eyes peering through the gap.
Inside, the room was silent save for the rhythmic beeping of monitors and the faint mechanical hum of the ventilator.
At the center of the white hospital bed lay her body.
Motionless.
Her face was pale. Lips cracked. Hair tangled.
That face—the one that used to appear flawless under every spotlight, always camera-ready—was now tired and fragile.
She stared.
And slowly, the distance between her and "Su Rui" began to grow.
The Su Rui with millions of fans.
The star who ruled magazine covers, red carpets, and contracts.
The woman who never wore flats, whose makeup never smudged, whose voice never shook.
That Su Rui… was gone?
Her eyes blurred. Tears welled.
So this was the ending?
A life that began beneath flashing lights, now fading out in silence?
She stood there, unmoving.
The things she used to cling to… didn't feel so important anymore.
She didn't know how long she had been standing there—staring at herself—when suddenly—
Click. Click. Click.
From the end of the hallway, the sound of polished shoes against tile echoed steadily, one beat at a time.
Su Rui snapped back to the present and looked up.
That sound—
She knew it.
Too well.
A cold shiver ran down her spine.
Someone was walking toward the room.