Transcending To You

Chapter 37: THE PAIN AND THE LOVE

The arena was in chaos. The thunderous applause and cheering that had filled the stadium just moments ago had turned into deafening cries of horror. Bright had fallen, mid-performance, and the sound of his body hitting the stage echoed through the stunned silence that followed. His fans, devoted and desperate, screamed his name. Many surged forward, trying to break past the security lines, their frantic cries blending into a cacophony of fear and heartbreak.

Barbara and Bright's team were the first to reach him. They sprinted onto the stage, panic etched into their faces. Barbara dropped to her knees beside him, shaking him gently.

"Bright! Bright, can you hear me?" Her voice cracked with urgency.

Bright's eyelids fluttered briefly before closing again, leaving him unresponsive. The sight of their beloved star, vulnerable and lifeless, sent waves of anguish through the crowd. Tears streamed down fans' faces as they shouted his name, their voices raw with despair.

"He's not moving!" a fan screamed, clutching her chest as if her heart might give out.

"He can't leave us! He just can't!" another sobbed.

The paramedics arrived swiftly, providing first aid as the team worked to clear the stage. But Bright remained unconscious, his condition alarming. Within minutes, he was rushed to the nearest hospital, the sirens of the ambulance wailing like a dirge. News outlets pounced on the story, broadcasting live updates. The fall of Bright, their shining star, became a breaking news phenomenon, sending shockwaves through his global fanbase.

Social media erupted. Posts flooded in, some filled with prayers and hope, others seething with malice.

"This is karma," one cruel comment read.

"He deserves it. Fake star," wrote another.

But amid the vitriol, there were desperate pleas.

"Bright, please. We need you. Don't leave us!"

"If something happens to him, I'll never recover," someone posted, garnering thousands of likes in minutes.

At the hospital, the scene was equally chaotic. Fans gathered outside in droves, their tear-streaked faces pressed against the glass doors, waiting for any news. Inside, Barbara stood outside the ICU, pacing nervously. Her phone vibrated, and she snatched it up without glancing at the screen.

"Barbara, how's Bright?" Win's voice was tense, teetering on the edge of panic.

"He's... he's not doing well," Barbara admitted, her voice trembling. "The doctors are running tests, but he hasn't opened his eyes yet."

Win was silent for a moment, the weight of her words sinking in. Finally, he spoke, his tone sharp and urgent. "Shyle is bringing Bright's past medical reports. His... his brain, Barbara. They need to check his brain."

Barbara frowned, confusion flashing across her face. "His brain? What are you talking about?"

"Just trust me. Please, give the reports to the doctor the moment Shyle arrives."

Seconds later, Shyle burst into the hallway, clutching a file so tightly his knuckles were white. He handed it to Barbara, his face pale with worry.

"Here. This is everything," Shyle said breathlessly. "Get this to the doctor now."

Barbara didn't waste a second. She rushed to the ICU and handed the file over to the medical team. The doctors examined the records intently, their brows furrowed in concentration. Outside, Barbara, Shyle, and Win—still on the phone—waited with bated breath.

Bright lay still on the hospital bed, his face peaceful but unnervingly pale. Machines beeped softly around him, marking time in the most agonizing way. His fans, his team, his loved ones—everyone—held onto a single, fragile hope: that he would wake up.