The hospital lights dimmed into evening. Machines hummed in quiet rhythm, marking the line between life and something else — something unseen.
Lee Ji-hee sat outside the ICU, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd prayed, but the words slipped out of him like an instinct.
His father, Lee Gang-min, was inside, arguing softly with the doctors. The man who once stood as an unshakable pillar in Korea's most powerful conglomerate now looked smaller, broken by helplessness.
Bo-ram had been unconscious for three days. Her vital signs stable, her brain activity normal… yet she didn't wake. The doctors called it "psychogenic coma," a condition without medical cause. Ji-hee called it nonsense.
But something about her final words before collapsing replayed endlessly in his head.
Hye-won… who is that?
Mom… you're here…
The name had cut through him like a ghostly echo. Hye-won—his late mother, who had died when Bo-ram was sixteen in that damned elevator accident.
He looked up at the hospital ceiling. "Umma," he whispered under his breath. "If you're still watching us… please, not her. Don't take her too."
He exhaled sharply, the tightness in his chest refusing to fade.
A nurse walked past, bowing politely. Ji-hee nodded, then looked at his reflection in the window. The face staring back looked tired beyond his twenty years. Acting president of the Lee Group at such a young age sounded glamorous to the world, but inside the glass walls of the boardroom, he was just a placeholder — a reminder that the real heir, Bo-ram, was still too young to inherit.
And yet here he was, working himself raw for a family name that wasn't even originally his.
He smiled bitterly. "The boy who grows strong under safe skies," his mother used to say when he was little. "That's what Ji-hee means. You'll never have to break to become strong."
But she was wrong. He had broken — many times. And every crack, every scar had been covered in polite smiles and tailored suits.
"President Lee?" a nurse called softly, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Your father would like to see you."
He stood quickly and entered the room.
Gang-min was pacing near the bed, his expression unreadable. "The doctors say it's stress," he muttered, shaking his head. "They don't know what they're talking about. My daughter… she's not—"
"She's strong," Ji-hee interrupted. "She'll wake up, Father."
Gang-min looked at him, eyes red. "You sound just like your mother," he said softly.
Ji-hee felt something twist in his chest. "That's not a bad thing."
His father gave a small, defeated laugh. "Maybe not."
They stood in silence, watching Bo-ram's sleeping form.
The steady beep of the monitor felt too calm for the tension in the air. Her fingers twitched once — barely — and Ji-hee leaned forward, his heart racing. But nothing followed.
He looked at her face again — pale, still, framed by dark hair. The same face that used to glare at him across the dinner table, that used to mock his seriousness and call him "Mr. Acting President" in that teasing tone.
She hadn't answered any of his calls since the incident at the club. And now, seeing her like this — fragile, distant — filled him with a fear he hadn't known before.
He couldn't shake the image of his mother's gentle smile that night. He had seen it too — or thought he had — right after him and Bo-ram argued and she was was walking away .
That smile, once so kind, now haunted him.
Outside, the sky rolled into midnight. Ji-hee stayed by her side long after his father left, his eyes growing heavy. Somewhere between exhaustion and grief, he thought he heard a whisper — a woman's voice, soft and distant, echoing through the walls.
"Grow safely… my children."
His eyes flew open. The room was empty. Only Bo-ram's monitor beeped quietly in the background.
He clenched his jaw. "Umma…" he breathed, almost afraid to finish the thought.
The shadows along the wall seemed to stretch, the hum of the lights deepening like a slow heartbeat.
And as the clock struck two, the monitor let out a sudden, sharp blip—
Then steadied again.
Ji-hee froze, staring at his sister's face. For a split second, he thought he saw her lips curve into a faint, knowing smile.