Into the Apex

The Worst Sound in the World

Two weeks before Masachika woke up, the hospital room became the setting for an event that would change everything. It wasn't a moment of progress, nor a sign that things were getting better. No, it was a moment that threatened to tear away the fragile threads that still held Alya together.

She had been sitting by his side as usual—her hand clasped around his, fingers curling around his lifeless palm, feeling the coldness of his skin against hers. Her eyes were heavy, blurry from lack of sleep, but she fought to keep them open. Every day was the same routine. Every day, she hoped that today might be the day he would show even the smallest sign of life. The doctors had told her to prepare for the worst, but part of her refused to believe them. She couldn't. Not when he was still here. Not when he still had a chance.

But that morning, something shifted. There was a sharp beep from the monitors above Masachika's bed, a high-pitched sound that pierced the air like a knife. Alya looked up, her heart leaping in her chest. It wasn't a sound she was used to hearing. It wasn't the soft rhythm of his heartbeat, the steady pulse she had come to rely on during her sleepless nights. It was something else.

Her eyes widened as she watched the numbers on the screen fluctuate rapidly, before flatlining altogether. The monitor emitted a loud, horrifying, continuous beep.

"Masachika?" Alya whispered, her voice trembling as she looked at him, willing him to wake up. "Masachika, please... don't do this."

The nurses burst into the room, their footsteps rapid and frantic, and Alya felt her body freeze in place. Everything seemed to happen at once. They moved so quickly, so professionally, but to Alya, it all felt like slow motion. The world tilted and swirled around her, the edges of her vision going blurry as she tried to process what was happening. This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not like this.

One of the nurses took her by the arm, guiding her out of the room with a firm yet gentle hand. "Miss Kujou, we need you to step outside," she said, her voice controlled but urgent.

"No!" Alya shouted, shaking her head, her voice cracking as she tugged her hand away. "No, I'm staying. I'm not going anywhere. He needs me."

Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She wanted to scream, to lash out, but there was nothing but terror in her chest, tightening and suffocating her. It felt like the walls of the room were closing in, like the air was thick and heavy, like she was drowning in it. She didn't understand how everything had escalated so quickly. He was supposed to get better. He was supposed to wake up. He wasn't supposed to die.

The nurse's hand on her arm tightened, but she didn't let go. "We're doing everything we can," the nurse assured her, though her voice was strained, the words as hollow as the beeping that filled the room. "Please, Miss Kujou, step outside for now. We need to work."

Alya shook her head, her tears spilling over now. She didn't want to move. She didn't want to be anywhere but beside him. But before she could protest further, the nurse was already pulling her from the room, and she was led out into the cold, sterile hallway.

Alya felt the weight of the walls close in on her. She could hear the shuffling of footsteps behind her, the quiet murmur of the doctors and nurses working on Masachika, but it was all a blur to her. She couldn't focus on anything but the sound of that flatline. That awful, soul-crushing sound. And the thought that this might be the end.

She sank down onto the floor in the hallway, her back pressed against the cool concrete wall. Her hands were trembling uncontrollably as she wiped her face, smearing the tears down her cheeks.

Her mind raced, desperately trying to process what was happening, but all she could think about was the crash. She remembered it so clearly. The sickening sound of metal scraping against the barriers, the way his car had spun through the air. This is because of the crash.

The thought crushed her. The guilt, the overwhelming sense of helplessness. What if it was too late? What if I never get the chance to tell him how much I love him?

Her breath hitched as a sob broke free, raw and guttural. She hugged her knees to her chest, curling into herself as the weight of the moment bore down on her. Every breath felt like a struggle, each one coming with the sharp sting of fear that she might never see Masachika smile again, never hear his voice, never feel his hand in hers again.

She didn't know how long she sat there, lost in her spiraling thoughts. It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours. She had no sense of time. But eventually, she was dimly aware of someone sitting beside her, their presence offering some small measure of comfort, like a beacon in the storm of her emotions.

It was her father. His face was tight with concern, but his presence was steady, solid. He had been quietly observing her from the corner of the hallway, silently offering his support. He was the one who had, despite his initial opposition to Masachika being in Alya's life, respected the bond they shared. He had seen how his daughter had changed, how Masachika had brought light back into her life, and now... now he saw how much she was losing.

Alya barely acknowledged him as he sat beside her, his arm slipping around her shoulders as she leaned into him. There were no words, only the quiet sound of her sobs. She had no more strength to fight the fear that was consuming her.

Minutes later, there was a sudden flurry of activity from the direction of Masachika's room. The beeping from the monitor was louder now, and her heart raced again. Alya pushed herself to her feet, her legs shaky, her hands still trembling as she turned toward the door to the ICU.

One of the doctors stepped out, and his face was drawn, tired. The moment he saw her, he offered a strained, sympathetic smile.

"He's stable," the doctor said, his voice low. "We've resuscitated him. He's back, but it's still too early to say what that means for his recovery. He's still in critical condition."

Alya's breath caught in her throat. He's back.

It felt like a weight had been lifted, though it was quickly replaced with new worry. What does this mean?

The doctor continued, "We're doing everything we can. His chances are still slim, but he's a fighter. We'll keep monitoring him closely."

But for Alya, the rest of the words blurred into the background. All she could think of was that he was still alive. He was still here. And even though the road ahead was uncertain, there was still hope.

As soon as the doctor finished, Alya rushed back to his side, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn't care about the uncertainty. She didn't care about what the doctors said. She only cared that he was still fighting, and that she would be there to fight with him.

Hours passed before they allowed her back into the room. Masachika's chest rose and fell with the slow, steady rhythm of the machines. His face was pale, his body still bruised and battered, but Alya could see it. She could feel it. He was still in there. He was still alive.

"I'm here," she whispered to him, her voice cracking. "I'm here, Masachika. Don't leave me. Please... don't leave me."