ENG - Fractured Fates ʰʸᵘⁿˡᶦˣ

4

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Felix POV

As I did every day, I arrived at the hospital and entered the changing room. This month I was on night shift and I hated it. Thank God Jisung was also on my shift, so it was only half as boring.
I changed my clothes, put on my nurse's uniform and made my way to the infirmary. There I found Jisung already slumped in a chair with a folder in his hand. His face clearly showed his dislike of the night shift. "These night shifts really aren't the highlight of our job," Jisung grumbled as soon as he saw me. A slight smile stole onto my lips and I nodded in agreement. "True, but at least there are bonuses for it," I replied and reached for one of the patient files scattered on the table.
Jisung sighed softly. "I can do without that," he murmured quietly and I smiled wearily. I admired his dedication, even though he didn't actually need to work here. His family was wealthy enough to give him a carefree life, but he wanted to be independent and I admired that. "By the way, here's a folder for you, with a note especially for you," he added and handed me the folder in question.

I immediately recognized the familiar handwriting on the note: my father's handwriting. I read the contents of the note and furrowed my brow. Jisung could barely contain his curiosity and his eyes shone with excitement as he looked at me questioningly. "So, what does it say?" he asked eagerly. "A stranger was admitted to our ward yesterday. I'm supposed to look after him and find out who he is, as he had no ID or anything else on him," I explained with a hint of concern in my voice. With a sigh, I turned to the file and began to study it.
"He was admitted with twelve stab wounds to the torso," I mumbled in shock as I read the gruesome details of the injuries. "Twelve? How the hell did he survive that? Is he in a coma?", my best friend exclaimed.
I just shrugged my shoulders and slowly closed the folder. "He was probably just damn lucky and apparently he's not in a coma," I replied and stretched briefly. "Wow, that's amazing," Jisung said in amazement. "I'll go and check on him," I said and left the ward.

As I walked slowly along the seemingly endless corridor, a feeling of trepidation enveloped me. The cold of the tiles beneath my shoes seemed to settle in my soul as I held the patient file in my hands and leafed through it. He was indeed completely unknown. Every entry was sparse - his weight, height, blood type and a few terse marginal notes that had been recorded by the doctors on site to plan the upcoming surgery and medication.
The hospital seemed even darker and more deserted at night. The neon lights on the ceiling flickered ominously, and the pungent smell of disinfectant hung heavy in the air as I made my way through the clinically white corridors to the room where the injured patient lay.

I opened the door with a barely audible creak and stepped inside. The door closed quietly behind me and I moved quietly towards the bed. The darkness engulfed the room and only the faint light of a nightlight revealed the outline of the sickroom.
His breathing was slow and steady as he stared motionlessly out of the window. An eerie shiver ran down my spine as I looked at the patient's condition. His face bore witness to infinite silence and loneliness.
Finally, I dared to step closer to his bed and switched on the light that illuminated the room. "Hey," I whispered softly as I ventured even closer to him. "I'm here to check on you. My name is Lee Felix. How are you feeling?" His eyes met mine and for a fleeting moment it seemed like that look was going to kill me. Then he turned his gaze away again without a word.
Despite the twelve wounds the knife wounds had left on his body, he didn't seem like a survivor at first.

As I sat down on a chair next to his bed, I could literally feel the tension in the air. The silence between us was almost suffocating, broken only by the soft hum of the medical equipment.
I dared to tentatively take his hand in a desperate attempt to establish a connection between us. But at that moment, my eyes fell on the leather cuffs that encircled his wrists. These cuffs were no ordinary ones; they were only put on the most difficult patients.
"Have you been thrashing about wildly?" I asked quietly as my eyes wandered to his legs and I noticed the restraints there too. His eyes wandered to his own hands and then back to me. "Just take them off so I can leave," he finally broke the silence, looking at me.
"I have no authority to decide that," I told him as I looked at him. My heart ached for him and I could now understand why it was noted in his file that four of his wounds needed stitches again.
The restraints were to keep him calm.

He sighed in annoyance and rolled his eyes as if the whole situation was unbearable for him. There was an expression of frustration deep in his voice and I could literally feel how upset he was by the circumstances. "Then get me someone who can make that decision," he said, his words tinged with anger.
I returned his tension with calm composure and slowly rose from my chair. "You'll have to wait until tomorrow," I explained patiently as I caught his gaze. It was impossible not to notice how much my answer bothered him. "Until then, you'll have to make do with my company, for better or worse."
With a shallow smile, I retrieved my pen from my pocket and began carefully recording his vital signs. After completing the notes, I approached the bedside again and asked gently, "Could I perhaps take a look at your wounds? I need to check if they might have opened up or show signs of inflammation." My voice sounded concerned and caring as I explained my intention. He responded with a sarcastic tone, "Do what you want. It's not like I can fight it." As a sign of his impotence, he pulled briefly at his hands, which were still held by the restraints, and then let them fall back powerlessly.

A slight smile played around my lips as I gently pushed the comforter aside and lifted the hospital top. When I saw the wounds on his upper body, an icy shiver ran down my spine. Twelve large scars stretched across his chest, missing his heart by a hair's breadth, while another had almost pierced his lung.
It was a miracle that he was still alive.
I carefully lowered the top again, having found no signs of complications, and gently covered him up again. "I'm sure you heard this many times yesterday, but you really were incredibly lucky," I murmured as I carefully recorded my observations in my folder.
He sighed again and glared at me again. "Stop with the bullshit cussing," he growled. A warm smile stole across my face as I complied with his request. "Of course, no problem," I replied quietly and put the folder aside. "What should I call you then?" I asked curiously.
His eyes flickered for a moment, as if he was thinking about whether he should answer. Finally, he said, "You're annoying."

My smile remained unwavering on my lips, even though he spoke to me in an irritated tone. I took a moment to just look at him and that brief moment seemed to fray his nerves even more. His anger was reflected in his scowl as he finally forced out the question, "Don't you have something else to do besides stare at me stupidly?"
I shook my head slowly and replied calmly: "Not at the moment. You're my top priority now until you're released." Another roll of his eyes and a sarcastic laugh escaped him, accompanied by a snide tone as he replied, "Happier me."
As he made his cynical comment, I opened the patient file again and began to carefully record the observations. "Are you in pain?" I asked, although I knew exactly how superfluous the question was at that moment.
His short, bitter laugh broke the silence. "You tell me. Should I feel pain after an attack like that? You're the doctor," he replied, maintaining his sarcastic tone. "Such a stupid question. Of course I'm in pain."
I drummed my lip with my pen and continued to watch him. "Irritability from the pain or personality?" I asked him. "Definitely personality," he replied, looking out the window behind me again.

With an understanding nod, I sank into my thoughts and sighed softly. I put the patient file to one side and turned my full attention to him. A shadow of concern and curiosity painted itself on my face as my eyes wandered carefully over his drawn face. It was fascinating how lively he seemed despite everything. "It's amazing how lively you seem," I explained my thoughts to him, my voice tinged with a hint of admiration. "Especially considering how narrowly you escaped death."
A cautious smile played around my lips as I studied his striking features. Not only his upper body, but also his face was covered in wounds. Countless scratches and bruises adorned his narrow face, accompanied by deep dark circles and tired eyes.
His reply came quietly and with a hint of irony: "How nice of you to notice. Then you can let me go, can't you?"

I could feel my heart getting heavier and I swallowed before replying: "You're really persistent, aren't you?" Our eyes met for a moment where we just looked at each other. But he remained stubbornly silent and averted his eyes.
"I understand that you're frustrated and I really want to help," I began carefully. "I care about your health and I'll do my best to make sure you get the best care possible. So, please don't make this so hard for me, will you?" I searched his gaze, hoping to make a connection and gain his trust.
"Then take these shackles off me and let me go. Staying here is damaging my mental health," he replied, looking at me again. A suppressed smile twitched across my lips and I bit my lower lip to keep from laughing. "I understand what you mean," I explained, my voice calm and empathetic. "But I think it will definitely be better for your physical health if you stay here."

His sarcastic disposition seemed unbroken as he countered: "Oh yeah? So the restraints are the key to my physical healing? That's really reassuring to hear, Doctor," he mocked and rolled his eyes again.
I couldn't help but suppress a slight smirk as I tried to take his concerns seriously. "Not the restraints themselves, but the rest and care you'll get here will definitely help your physical recovery," I replied.
He raised an eyebrow and sighed theatrically. "Well, that sounds like a grandiose plan. I can't wait to get stuck in." I didn't let his sarcasm ruffle my feathers and continued gently: "Trust me, you'll get through your time here quicker than you think. And in the end, you'll be glad you had these rest periods to recover."

He snorted softly and his tired look betrayed the frustration that had been building up inside him. With a sarcastic smile on his lips, he replied: "Well, then I can start planning my agenda for staying here. Monday: Collect dust on the bedside table. Tuesday: Stare at the walls. Wednesday: Snoring with the nurses." His words were drenched in irony, but I also noticed how he tried to cover up the unpleasant thoughts about his situation with sarcasm.
I couldn't help but smile, understanding that his sarcastic defense mechanism was his way of dealing with uncertainty and anxiety. I knew this mechanism all too well, as many patients used it to mask their fears, including myself. "And who knows, maybe I'll become the world's best bedside dust collector or an expert snorer. That'll certainly be exciting," he added.
"But don't forget to show me your dust collection when you're released. I'm already looking forward to it," I smiled at him, to which he laughed wryly. "Just get out of here, I want to sleep," he grumbled.

I reached for my folder and stood up. "As you wish. If there's anything, just press this button here and I'll come straight away," I said, placing the call button in his hands. The restraints would otherwise have made it impossible for him to reach me. "Otherwise, I'll check on you again in two hours." Uncertainty resonated in my voice as I hoped his sarcastic façade didn't mask his true suffering too much.

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