Chapter -3

The antiseptic smell of the hospital was sharp, almost suffocating.

White walls stretched endlessly, their sterile brightness only making the shadows beneath Jihu’s eyes darker.

Ren half-dragged, half-guided his tall friend through the automatic doors, ignoring Jihu’s quiet protests.

The nurse at the desk looked up with practiced sympathy as Ren explained in a rush,

“He was beaten up. Please, we need a doctor right away.”

Jihu tried to pull his arm free.

“Ren, I said I’m fine."

“You’re bleeding,” Ren snapped, his voice rising louder than usual.

People turned to look, but he didn’t care.

“Your ribs might be broken, your lip is cut, and your face looks like you fought a truck. You are not fine.”

Jihu grimaced, touching the corner of his mouth where blood had dried.

“It’s not that bad. I’ve had worse.”

That only made Ren’s chest ache more.

He tightened his grip on Jihu’s sleeve and glared at him fiercely.

“Do you even hear yourself? ‘I’ve had worse’? That’s not something you should be used to saying, Jihu!”

The nurse hurried to call a doctor, and within minutes, they were ushered into a small examination room.

A middle-aged man in a white coat examined Jihu with steady hands, checking his bruises, shining a light in his eyes, gently pressing at his ribs.

Jihu winced but didn’t complain.

Not once.

Ren sat in the corner, his fists clenched, his jaw tight.

The doctor finally sighed and said,

“He’s lucky. No broken bones, just bruising. A few cuts, some swelling. He needs rest, good food, and no stress.”

Ren exhaled slowly. Lucky. That word felt bitter in his mouth.

As the doctor left to fetch some ointment and painkillers, Jihu turned his head toward Ren, his lips curving faintly despite the swelling.

“You don’t have to look like that. I told you, I’m okay.”

Ren’s head snapped up, his glare sharp.

“Okay? You think being beaten until you can’t walk straight is okay?”

Jihu chuckled softly, though it made his lip sting.

“Don’t talk like my mom.”

For a moment, the air froze.

Ren’s chest tightened, his words dying in his throat.

He stared at Jihu, unable to reply.

The image of Jihu’s murdered mother—the story he had told Ren once, in a rare moment of vulnerability—flashed in his mind.

Jihu noticed the silence, and his faint smile slipped.

He looked down at his hands, his long fingers curled loosely against his knee.

Ren finally spoke, his voice quieter but heavy.

“If you need money… just take it from me. Why hurt yourself like this?”

Jihu didn’t answer.

His jaw tightened, his eyes focused on the sterile floor.

Ren leaned forward, his voice urgent.

“Why? Are you trying to prove something? That you can survive on your own? That you don’t need anyone? Well, guess what—everyone needs someone. And you have me. So stop—stop killing yourself just to pretend you’re fine.”

Still, Jihu said nothing.

His silence was like a wall Ren couldn’t break through.

The door opened again, and the doctor returned with supplies.

Ren backed off, swallowing his frustration as the doctor handed him instructions for medicine and care.

Jihu was patched up, given bandages, and told to rest.

By the time they left the hospital, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in streaks of orange.

Ren carried the small bag of medicine, his steps heavy.

Beside him, Jihu walked slowly, one hand pressed against his side, his face unreadable.

Neither of them spoke for a long while.

Meanwhile, at school, the classrooms were filled with the drone of teachers’ voices and the scratching of pens.

But in one corner, Prince wasn’t listening at all.

He sat at his desk, chin resting on his hand, his eyes fixed on the empty page of his notebook.

His friends whispered and laughed a few rows behind him, but their voices sounded distant, muffled.

His mind replayed the morning’s scene again and again.

Jihu’s tall frame against the wall.

His steady, cold eyes.

His voice, quiet but unwavering—“If you want, then just beat me up and fuck off from here.”

And then the beating.

The silence.

The way Jihu didn’t beg, didn’t cry, didn’t even try to run. He just… endured.

Prince tapped his pen against the desk, a crease forming between his brows.

He had seen people cry, beg, scream when beaten.

That was normal.

That was expected.

But Jihu hadn’t done any of that. He had stood there like stone, like a man carrying the weight of something far heavier than fists.

Prince muttered under his breath, too quietly for anyone else to hear,

“…How can someone let themselves be beaten up for just some money?”

He couldn’t understand it.

He didn’t understand him.

And for the first time in a long while, Prince felt something unfamiliar.

A crack.

Far from the classroom, Jihu sat quietly in his room later that night, staring at the bag of medicine Ren had left for him.

His ribs ached, his lip was swollen, but none of it hurt as much as the silence between him and Ren.

Ren had gone home reluctantly after insisting Jihu rest. But his words lingered.

“You have me. So stop pretending you’re fine.”

Jihu closed his eyes and lay back on the thin mattress.

For a moment, he allowed himself to wish.

Wish that life was easier.

That he could lean on someone without feeling weak.

That maybe—just maybe—he could stop enduring alone.

But wishes were dangerous.

And Jihu didn’t believe in them anymore.

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