I caught the twins outside the medicine ward at 6:45 a.m. They looked worse than I’d ever seen them — eyes bloodshot, clothes wrinkled like they’d slept in them, hair sticking up at odd angles. They had the desperate energy of students who’d tried to cram a year’s worth of clinical skills into forty-eight hours.

  “Today’s the day,” I said.

  Tonny nodded, swallowing hard. “7 a.m. Dr. Bennett’s office.”

  “You ready?”

  “We practiced the respiratory exam eight times last night. Cardiac, six. We kept messing up the auscultation points, but we fixed it. I think,” Bonny said.

  I looked at them both. They were terrified, but for the first time they looked like medical students instead of tourists. “Remember the systematic approach,” I told them. “Every system has a sequence. Follow it. Don’t skip steps because you think you know what comes next. And Tonny — don’t wrestle the patient.”

  Bonny managed a weak laugh. Tonny just looked nauseous.

  “You’ll be fine,” I said. “Save the thanks for after you pass. Text me.”

  They nodded. I walked away before they could say anything else.

  I watched them head toward the medical building, then checked my phone. 6:52 a.m. Akki’s CT scan was at 9:00 a.m. If the swelling was down, the wake-up trial would start around 2 p.m. I had to be there.

  Surgery rounds started at 7:00 a.m. sharp. I was there in my short coat, notebook open, trying to look focused as I presented three post-op patients to Dr. Kimathi. The words came out right — vitals, wound checks, pain scores — but every few minutes I caught myself glancing at the clock. 8:15. 8:47. 9:22.

  “Ashru.”

  Dr. Kimathi noticed. She crossed her arms, interrupting my report on a gallbladder recovery. “You’ve checked your phone six times in fifteen minutes. Dr. Okafor asked you a question about post-op wound care and you didn’t even hear him. What’s going on?”

  I looked at her, then at Dr. Okafor three beds down. “I… I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t catch the question.”

  He looked at me. Then, to my surprise, his expression softened slightly. “You’ve been watching that clock all morning. What’s happened?”

  “My friend,” I said. “The motorcycle accident in the ICU. The wake-up trial is today.”

  “Ah.” He nodded slowly. “The motorcycle accident. Subdural hematoma.”

  I blinked. “You know about that?”

  “I know about everything that happens to my students.” He set down his clipboard. “Go.”

  “Sir? My evaluation percentage—”

  “Will survive one day,” Okafor countered, his voice flat but not unkind. “Your friend might not. Go.”

  I didn’t wait. I stripped off my white coat and ran.

  The ICU corridor was crowded when I got there. I pushed through, heart pounding. Akki’s parents were there, huddled together near the door. A few other relatives I didn’t recognize — an aunt, maybe, and an older woman who had to be his grandmother. A couple of students from our batch stood against the wall, faces solemn. Priella, Kaya, a few others, and Murin.

  He was in the corner, arms crossed, staring at the glass window. His expression was focused, like he was thinking about something very hard.

  Mrs. Santos saw me. “Ashru!” She stood up quickly. “You came.”

  “Of course.” I let her hug me. She was shaking. “Any news on the CT?”

  “They just took him about twenty minutes ago. Should be finishing soon.” Her voice was thin. “Dr. Resham said she’d come talk to us as soon as they have results.”

  I found a spot along the wall. Not too close to Murin, but close enough that I could see him in my peripheral vision.

  The minutes crawled by.

  9:47 a.m. How long did a CT scan take?

  10:03 a.m. Maybe they were reviewing it carefully. That was good. Thorough was good.

  10:21 a.m. Unless they found something. Something bad.

  At 10:34, Dr. Resham emerged from the ICU.

  Everyone stood. The relatives, the students, Akki’s parents. Even Murin, though he stayed in his corner. Dr. Resham was in her mid-forties, with gray streaks in her dark hair and the professional demeanor that came from delivering bad news a thousand times. She looked tired. “The CT scan looks good,” she said.

  Mrs. Santos made a sobbing sound. Mr. Santos closed his eyes.

  “The swelling has reduced significantly. ICP is stable at 11. No new bleeding, no complications from the surgery, no signs of increased herniation.” She paused. “He’s as ready as he’s going to be.”

  “So we can try waking him up?” Mr. Santos asked. His voice was hoarse.

  “We’re going to start reducing the sedation now. It takes time for the medications to clear his system — probably two to three hours. Around 12:30 or 1 p.m., we’ll start the wake-up trial.” She looked around at all of us. “I need to be very clear about what that means.”

  Everyone waited.

  “We’re going to reduce sedation until he’s no longer being kept asleep. Then we’ll watch for signs of consciousness. Eye opening, following commands, purposeful movement. Best-case scenario, he wakes up. He’s alert, oriented, recognizes you. He can talk, move, remember things.”

  “And worst case?” someone asked. One of the relatives.

  Dr. Resham’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her eyes. “Worst case, he doesn’t wake up. Or he wakes up but he’s not… responsive. Brain injuries are unpredictable. We won’t know the extent of damage until we see how he responds.”

  “What are the odds?” Mr. Santos asked quietly.

  “I don’t do odds. Every patient is different. But he’s young, previously healthy, and he survived the initial trauma and surgery. Those are all positive factors. Please wait.” She left. The waiting continued.

  At 2:47, Dr. Resham looked up at us through the glass. Her expression was unreadable. Another hour passed.

  Akki’s grandmother was praying, lips moving silently, fingers working through prayer beads. His mother hadn’t stopped crying — tears just falling, like her body couldn’t help it. His father stood behind her, hands on her shoulders.

  I closed my eyes and did something I hadn’t done since I was a kid. I prayed.

  Please. Please let him wake up. Please let him be okay. Please don’t take him from us. Please.

  I know I fucked up. I know I’ve made mistakes. I know I’m not perfect. But Akki doesn’t deserve this. He was just trying to live. Just trying to have fun. Just trying to be happy.

  Please. Please. Please.

  I opened my eyes. Murin was still in his corner, perfectly still. My phone buzzed.

  Text from Tonny: We passed.

  Dr. Bennett made us each examine a different patient. Bonny got respiratory, I got cardiovascular. We both got through it. He signed our forms. We’re not getting a pending.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Another text: Thank you. Seriously. We owe you.

  I typed back: Congratulations. You earned it.

  I put my phone away. The twins passing their exam should have felt good. Should have felt like an accomplishment. Instead, it just felt… distant.

  At 4:30 p.m., Dr. Resham came out. The moment I saw her face, I knew.

  “I’m so sorry.” That’s how she started. “We’ve done three separate wake-up trials over the past six hours. Reduced sedation to minimal levels. Stimulated him repeatedly. There’s been no meaningful response. Brain activity on EEG is minimal.” She paused. “The swelling, combined with the initial impact, caused more damage than we initially assessed.”

  Mrs. Santos made a sound I’d never heard from a human before.

  “His brainstem is still functioning. He’s breathing on his own now, his heart is stable. But the higher cortical functions… they’re not there. And based on the imaging and the lack of response, we don’t believe they’ll return.”

  Mr. Santos caught his wife as her legs gave out. His own face was wet, but he didn’t make a sound, just held her.

  Dr. Resham continued, her voice gentle but steady. “We’ll keep him comfortable. We’ll give it more time — sometimes there are late recoveries, though rare. But I need you to prepare for the possibility that he may never wake up.”

  The words bounced around my skull, not quite landing. Never. Wake. Up.

  I looked at Akki through the glass. His chest was rising and falling on its own now. Like he was sleeping and he’d wake up any second and make some stupid joke about how long we’d been waiting. But he wouldn’t.

  The relatives crowded around Dr. Resham, asking questions I couldn’t hear. Akki’s grandmother collapsed into a chair, her prayer beads still moving. His mother was inconsolable. His father — I’d never seen a man look so completely hollow.

  I turned to find Murin. He was still in his corner. He looked at Mr. Santos. Then at the ICU doors. Then he stood up and walked out. I wanted to follow him. Wanted to say something, do something. But my legs wouldn’t move. My brain wouldn’t work.

  My phone rang. I looked at it. The courier. Right. I’d told him to call when he had another delivery. I answered automatically. “Hello?”

  “Sir, I’m at the hospital entrance. You said to call? I have a delivery for you.”

  Another letter. Another message from whoever was watching this nightmare.

  “I’ll be there,” I heard myself say.

  I walked out of the ICU wing. Through the corridors. Down the stairs. My body moved automatically. Brain completely offline. The courier was waiting outside the main entrance. Same guy as before. He held out an envelope when he saw me.

  I grabbed his shoulder instead. “Who sent this?”

  He flinched. “Sir, I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. You have to. Someone gave you this. Someone paid you. Who was it?”

  “I swear I don’t know!” His eyes were wide. “It comes through the service anonymously. I just get a pickup location and a delivery address.”

  “That’s bullshit. There has to be something. A name, a phone number, an address.”

  “There’s nothing! It’s all anonymous! They pay online, leave instructions, that’s it!”

  I tightened my grip. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not! I swear!” He pulled back. “Look, I’m just trying to do my job, okay? I don’t know who sends these. I’ve never seen them. They use a burner email, pay in cryptocurrency. There’s no trail.”

  I let go. He stepped back, rubbing his shoulder. “Are you okay, sir?” he asked, genuinely.

  “I’m fine.” I took the envelope. “Did you see anyone? Anyone watching?”

  “No. Nobody. I’m sorry.” He left quickly. I stood there holding the envelope. Then I looked around. The parking lot. The street. The people walking by.

  Someone was out here. Somewhere. Watching this. Knowing what was happening. Knowing about the System. About everything. I started walking. Fast. Looking for… what? A suspicious person? Someone staring too long? This was insane. I didn’t even know who I was looking for.

  My feet moved faster. Started running. Through the parking lot. Around the side of the building. Past the emergency entrance. Looking for a face in the crowd. A person who didn’t belong.

  A horn blared. I looked up. I was in the middle of the street. A car was coming straight at me, braking hard, tires screeching. I froze.

  Arms grabbed me from behind and yanked me backward. We both hit the pavement hard, rolling onto the sidewalk. The car screeched past, the driver yelling something I didn’t hear.

  “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

  Murin. He was on top of me, breathing hard, face furious. “ARE YOU TRYING TO GET YOURSELF KILLED? YOU JUST WALKED INTO TRAFFIC! YOU DIDN’T EVEN LOOK!”

  People were gathering. Staring. Someone asked if we needed help. Murin waved them off. “I’M FINE. HE’S FINE. JUST LEAVE US ALONE.”

  He pulled me up roughly. Dragged me away from the crowd, toward a bench near the hospital’s side entrance.

  “Sit.”

  I sat. He paced in front of me. Three steps forward, three steps back. Then he stopped and looked at me. “What the hell, Ashru.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Akki’s in a coma, permanently. And you’re out here walking into traffic like you don’t care if you live or die.”

  “I was looking for—”

  “For what? For who?” He gestured at the envelope still clutched in my hand. “What is that? What are these letters you keep getting?”

  I looked down at the envelope. At my hands, scraped and bleeding from hitting the pavement.

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the only answer I have.” I looked up at him. “Someone knows about… something about me. They’ve been sending me letters. And I thought maybe I could find them. Figure out who they are. But I don’t even know what they look like.”

  Murin stared at me. “What are you talking about?”

  Right. He didn’t know about the System. Nobody did.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Then uncomplicate it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll think I’m crazy.”

  We looked at each other. Three days of silence, eating alone and avoiding each other and pretending the other person didn’t exist. And now we were here. Both broken and barely holding it together.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Murin didn’t say anything and sat beside me. We sat like that for a long time. Finally, Murin reached into his pocket and pulled out a bandage and tossed it onto my lap.

  “Ready for the camp,” he said.

  I stared at the bandage. “What?”

  He didn’t explain. Just stood up and walked away.

  I sat there on the bench holding the envelope. Finally, I opened the letter. The handwriting was neat, elegant and familiar.

  I stared at it. Where had I seen this before?

  Then I read the words:

  You must survive what comes next.

  The camp will teach you more than you expect.

  Be prepared.

  I folded the letter. Put it in my pocket and activated the System.

  “You’re supposed to help me,” I said quietly. The System flickered.

  I laughed. It came out bitter. “So you’re saying if I’d been better, smarter, more advanced, Akki would be okay? That’s on me?”

  “The letter said the camp will teach me something. What?”

  “Is that supposed to be comforting?”

  “Are you challenging me?” I asked the System. “Is that what this is? You provide information but I have to be smart enough to use it? Strong enough to handle it?”

  “And if I’m not ready? If I fail?”

  I stared at the screen. “Fine,” I said. “You want me to be ready? I’ll be ready. If I need to be a neurologist to save the next person, then that’s what I’ll work toward. If I need to be better, stronger, smarter — fine. I’ll do it.”

  “Two to three years. That’s still too long.”

  I closed my eyes. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  I dismissed the System and looked at the letter again. Whoever was sending these, they were pushing me. Testing me. Watching to see what I’d do.

  Fine. Let them watch. I’d go to the camp. I’d learn everything I could. I’d become the kind of person who could actually help instead of just standing around being useless. And when I figured out who was sending these letters, I’d—

  What? Thank them? Punch them? Demand answers? I didn’t know yet. But I’d figure it out.

  Tomorrow I’d start over. Tomorrow I’d be the person Akki needed me to be. Even if he’d never know it.