Ch - 3

Two men — one shorter and stouter, with skin pale as snow, and the other tall and draped in a long coat — were carrying someone slung over their shoulders. It was a young, well-built man, severely injured. His body was covered in wounds; his clothes smeared with dirt. His head swung loosely, unconscious, blood crusted on his gashes.

The two of them marched briskly through the gates of a large hospital, where the sharp scent of medicine hung thick in the air. The building was alive with people dressed in white coats and scrubs — some staff, some family, some just waiting. In this world of rushing feet and quiet urgency, lay a place surrounded by pain, disease, and fading hope.

As they entered, a doctor noticed them and a flicker of panic crossed his face. He rushed over, his voice laced with urgency, "This man looks critical — we'll have to admit him to the ER immediately."

"Please, come this way," he gestured quickly and summoned a few ward boys who came running in with a stretcher. The injured man was carefully placed on it and whisked away with hurried steps toward the emergency room.

Sydrala and Cam followed, but they were stopped at the ER doors. No one was allowed beyond that point. Instead, they were taken aside for questioning.

There sat an elderly woman, dressed in hospital administration attire. She glanced at them sternly and asked in a curt tone, "Who is this man? What is your relation to him? Show me his ID."

Cam and Sydrala exchanged looks — because neither of them knew who he really was.

"We don't know him," they admitted, "and we have no information about him."

The woman's face twisted, unimpressed. Her voice sharpened, "Then we can't treat him here. No identity, no admission." She turned and signaled for someone — possibly security — to come over.

Sydrala, holding back her frustration, replied respectfully but firmly, "Ma'am, please... look at his uniform. He's a soldier. You can't deny him treatment. He's in critical condition."

But the woman snapped back with increasing rudeness, "If you don't have identity, nothing can be done. We can't take cases like this."

The argument began to escalate. The woman, unwilling to budge, called for security and ordered, "Get these two out of here. They're disturbing the peace."

Until now, Cam had been silently enduring the suffocating environment. But the woman's behavior finally pushed him to the edge.

He burst out angrily, "Old lady, I've been holding my tongue out of respect for your age, but don't test me... A man is dying in there, and you're concerned with paperwork?"

But the outburst had no effect. She waved to the two towering security guards, who began to move toward them.

Sydrala pleaded, "Please, at least listen—" but the guards clearly had no interest in negotiation. They grabbed both of them to escort them out.

Just then — a voice echoed from behind. A deep, commanding voice that stopped Sydrala in her tracks like a beam of light cutting through her dazed thoughts. She turned swiftly.

There stood a tall man, around thirty years old, wearing a doctor's coat. His hair was neither long nor short, jet black, and it added to the brilliance of his face. His skin was smooth, spotless — white like polished stone. A long, sharp nose, high cheekbones, lips as if painted red, large, deep eyes that pulled you in like a silent ocean. His gaze had magic. His eyebrows were gently arched, and his forehead, broad but graceful, held his dark hair in place. A perfectly sharp jawline completed the picture. He wasn't overly muscular, but certainly not frail — he had a presence.

On his coat, the name was written Dr. Sadako.

He was none other than Sydrala's beloved uncle.

The guards froze. The stern old woman's expression softened. Her body language changed instantly. A false smile formed on her face as she said to him, "Sir, we were only trying to maintain order… These two were causing some disturbance, that's all."

Dr. Sadako greeted her politely. She seemed flustered by his presence, and seeing this, Cam couldn't help but chuckle — Seems even she has lofty dreams, he thought.

Dr. Sadako gestured to the guards to release them. They obeyed silently, lowering their gaze.

Sydrala hurried toward her uncle, but before she could say anything, his deep, husky voice cut through the air:

"Sydrala, what is all this? And what are you doing here in this condition?"

Only then did she realize how disheveled she looked. She stepped back slightly.

Sadako turned to Cam and acknowledged him with a nod. Cam greeted him back.

Sadako repeated the same question. In under two minutes, Sydrala told him everything — though she twisted some details, like where they found the injured man.

After listening patiently, Sadako gave a soft smile and said, "You did well — helping someone in need is no small thing. But in your current state, someone might mistake you for a ghost. Go home. I'll handle everything."

Both Sydrala and Cam spoke together, "But—"

He raised a hand to stop them.

They didn't argue further. Quietly, they turned to leave. As they walked away, Sydrala remembered the two mysterious men who had brought the injured soldier. She asked around, but no one knew anything about them.

She silently thanked them in her heart and left, walking side by side with Cam — bickering as usual.

Back inside, Dr. Sadako turned to the older woman and said gently, "Ma'am, I believe a doctor's first duty is to save a life, don't you? Don't you think you were being a bit too strict?"

The woman stammered, "But Dr. Sadako, we didn't know who he was…"

Smiling, Sadako replied, "His identity is this — he's a soldier, fighting for our country, leaving behind his home and family. And you want ID?"

He turned and walked away.

Later, a young female doctor approached Dr. Sadako, her voice barely audible.

"That man… he's stable now. The treatment is working, and he's regained consciousness — though he's still asleep."