The gala's lights had begun to feel like needles against Akira's retinas. Everything that had transpired in the garden—the primal instinct that led her to grab Naea, the crystalline sound of the wine glass shattering against the stone—had momentarily melted her icy exterior. But the moment Kenji appeared, the "Ice Queen" had to rebuild her fortress. She watched as Naea followed Kenji back inside, but the look in Naea's eyes—a volatile mixture of fury, confusion, and a hint of old recognition—guaranteed that Akira would not find sleep easily tonight.
𝔹𝕣𝕠𝕜𝕖𝕟 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕒 𝕋𝕒𝕜𝕒𝕙𝕒𝕤𝕙𝕚
Inside the ballroom, the cake-cutting ceremony was in full swing. Laughter bounced off the gold-leafed walls, and the sound of clapping filled the room, but Kenji Takahashi was a ghost at his own feast. Akira's poisonous whisper—"Naea is in a serious relationship with Itsuki"—played on a loop in his mind, louder than the orchestral music.
Kenji looked at Naea as she stood beside him. She was graceful, poised, and utterly breathtaking in her midnight-blue silk, but to Kenji, she now felt like a riddle he couldn't solve. He thought to himself, Was I truly this blind? I cherished her as my closest confidante, yet she kept a secret this monumental from me?
Kenji's inherent innocence was his greatest flaw. The realization that the woman he had loved from afar for months belonged to someone else felt like a physical weight on his chest. Part of him refused to believe it, yet another part was already mourning. He put on his most practiced smile, behaving as if nothing was wrong, but he was crumbling internally. He decided he would demand the truth tomorrow; for now, he would cling to whatever time remained of his birthday to be near her.
ℙ𝕦𝕟𝕔𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝕋𝕣𝕒𝕡
From the shadows of the ballroom, Akira watched them together. Her jealousy wasn't a fire that burned out; it was a slow-acting acid. Unable to take it anymore, she exited toward the parking lot. As she approached the elite row of vehicles, she noticed a group of men—Kenji's staff—surrounding a Mercedes Sedan. With calculated precision, they were puncturing the tires.
Akira recognized the car immediately; she had seen it in the hospital parking lot many times. It was Naea's. Realizing this was Kenji's desperate "gold opportunity" to play the hero and drive her home, Akira didn't leave. Instead, she climbed into her Lexus, kept the lights off, and waited in the darkness like a silent observer.
A few minutes later, Naea and Kenji emerged. Naea gasped as she saw her car sagging toward the pavement. Kenji hid a small, triumphant smile—it was his move to win back some ground. Since it was late and no taxis were operating in this exclusive district, Kenji offered her a ride. Naea, exhausted and trapped by circumstance, had no choice but to accept.
Suddenly, the dash lights of a premium Lexus cut through the dark. Akira started her engine and rolled up beside them. The window glided down, revealing Akira's sharp, unreadable face. "Dr. Naea, I can drop you off if you'd like," she said, her voice a challenge. She knew exactly what Kenji was doing, and she wasn't about to let him have his victory.
Naea looked at Akira, then at Kenji. After a moment of heavy silence, she turned to Kenji. "Kenji, shall we go?" The rejection hit Akira like a slap. Kenji opened the passenger door with a flourish, ushered Naea inside, and drove off. Akira sat alone in her car, gripped by a rage so intense she began to shake. She slammed her hand against the steering wheel, cranked the music to a deafening volume, and sped toward the White Frost building, leaving a trail of burnt rubber behind.
𝕊𝕠𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕤
The interior of Kenji's car was filled with an awkward, heavy silence. Hoping to break the tension, Kenji asked if she wanted to hear some music. Naea, staring out at the blurred city lights, replied softly, "I need something calm right now... play 'Prologue' by Uru."
As the haunting, melodic voice of the singer filled the cabin, they drove in silence. For Naea, the song was a refuge from the chaos of the night. For Kenji, it felt like a requiem for his hopes.
When they arrived at the White Frost building, Kenji walked her to the entrance. He hoped she might invite him in for a drink, but she simply thanked him and wished him a sweet good night. Disappointed but still smiling, Kenji drove away. Moments later, Akira's Lexus roared into the parking garage.
Inside the lobby, the elevator was out of service due to a mechanical failure that wouldn't be fixed until morning. Naea, still in her gala heels and drained from a double shift at the hospital followed by the party, felt a wave of despair. Akira entered the lobby, ignored Naea completely, and began walking up the stairs.
Naea removed her heels and followed. By the 5th floor, her muscles were screaming. By the 6th, she saw Akira standing on the landing, waiting. Naea tried to bypass her, but her foot slipped on the polished stone. Her ankle twisted with a sickening pop, and she collapsed, clutching her foot in agony."Naea collapsed right then and there, the intensity of the pain becoming too sharp to bear."
𝕁𝕒𝕘𝕘𝕖𝕕 𝕂𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕗 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘
Akira was at her side in an instant. Without uttering a single word, she swept Naea into her arms, carrying her in a bridal style and retrieving the discarded heels. Naea was too exhausted to fight. Akira asked for her floor and apartment no , and Naea whispered, "8th floor... apartment 44 .Akira carried her all the way to the 8th floor.Apartment 44."
"Passcode," Akira demanded. When Naea hesitated, Akira said coldly, "You can change it tomorrow, just tell me now." Naea gave her the code: 7986.
Akira unlocked the door, carried Naea directly to the bedroom, and laid her down. She left the room, and for a moment, Naea thought she was gone. But Akira had only gone across the hall to Apartment 42—her own home. They were neighbors on the same floor.
Akira returned with an ice pack and medical - grade elastic bandage. Naea was attempting to hobble toward the bathroom, but Akira intercepted her. "Can't you just stay still for once?" she snapped, her voice cold but her actions gentle. She carried Naea to the bathroom, waited outside, and then carried her back to bed.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, Akira placed Naea's injured foot on her lap. Naea tried to pull away, but Akira's voice was firm. "Do you have a habit of staying in pain? Sleep. Trust me , It will be better by morning."
Despite the cold, sharp exterior she presented to the world, Akira moved with the silent, practiced efficiency of a surgeon. She began by applying a cold compress to Naea's lateral malleolus—the bony part of the ankle where the inflammation was most severe. For the first 20 minutes, Akira held the ice pack firmly, allowing the cryotherapy to cause vasoconstriction, which slowed the internal bleeding and numbed the nerve endings to dull Naea's sharp pain.
After a brief pause to prevent tissue damage, she reapplied the cold therapy for another 15 minutes, meticulously monitoring the skin's reaction. Once the icing was complete, Akira transitioned into the full RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation) protocol. She lifted Naea's foot with a reverence that felt almost sacred, placing it atop a stack of pillows to achieve Elevation above the level of the heart, a move designed to facilitate venous return and further reduce the edema.
Next came the Compression. With steady, rhythmic hands, Akira began wrapping a medical-grade elastic bandage around the midfoot and ankle. She applied just enough tension to provide support without compromising arterial circulation, her fingers smoothing out every wrinkle in the fabric with perfectionist care. Finally, she enforced the Rest. Her voice dropped to a low, authoritative hum as she tucked the duvet around Naea, ensuring the joint was completely immobilized. In that quiet apartment, the prosecutor's clinical precision felt less like an investigation and more like a silent confession of a love that refused to die , her touch surprisingly tender. The silence between them wasn't angry anymore; it was weary. As Akira worked, the tension of the night began to dissolve. Naea, lulled by the soothing rhythm and the relief from the pain, finally drifted into a deep sleep. Akira didn't sleep until she was certain Naea was out.
When the first rays of the morning sun filtered through the bedroom curtains, Naea's eyes fluttered open—not to the usual sharp throb of pain, but to a profound and heavy sense of peace. She shifted instinctively, her breath catching as she waited for the familiar electric sting in her ankle, but it never came. Akira's clinical precision with the RICE treatment had worked like a silent miracle. The agonizing inflammation had retreated into a dull, manageable hum, and the medical-grade bandage remained perfectly intact, a testament to the steady hands that had wrapped it hours before.
As Naea sat up, she felt a lightness in her body as if someone had spent the entire night holding her burden for her. She reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, her gaze drifting to the empty side of the bed. Akira was gone, yet the lingering scent of her cool, signature fragrance and the faint indentations on the pillow proved she had stayed , beyond the physical recovery, there was a deeper relief in knowing that in a world full of noise, someone still understood her pain without a single word being spoken.