Chris stood and picked up his suitcase. Without a word, he slipped one hand into his pocket and walked to the door. Just as he placed his hand on the knob, Alex spoke.
"I'm scared you might not have much time left after the exhibition."
Chris heard Alex sigh behind him. His grip on the doorknob tightened.
"Please, think about the surgery again. Just… give it another thought before it's too late."
Chris turned the knob and stepped out of the office without replying. He walked down the corridor, eyes locked on the ground, the world blurring into silence. His face was unreadable, his gaze hollow. As he rounded a corner, a nurse nearly bumped into him. She gasped and bowed in apology, but Chris kept walking, his shoulder knocked into hers. She spun around, ready to shout, but he had already turned another corner.
"Hey! You brat! What were you doing just standing there? You watched her die! You killed her! You son of a bitch!"
The sharp cry cracked through Chris's numb world. His steps halted. Slowly, he lifted his head and saw a middle-aged woman on her knees, clutching a boy—no older than eight—by the shoulders, shaking him violently.
Chris stared at the boy's face. It was soaked with tears, each drop falling in slow motion. The boy's mouth opened wide as he cried, shaking his head, rubbing his palms together in desperation.
"Please, Aunty! Please!"
"Oh, really?" the woman snapped and shoved the boy to the ground.
Chris flinched at the thud of the boy's head hitting the tile. His fists clenched.
"You killed my daughter! You!" the woman screamed, her voice laced with venom.
Chris's cheeks burned as a memory seared through him—his own aunt's furious slap, the fall down the stairs.
"I should never have taken you in," the woman hissed, yanking the boy by his hair. "Get out! Get out of my sight!"
Chris's head pounded.
"Get out!" His aunt's voice echoed in his mind. "I should never have let you in."
His gaze lingered on the boy—his pitiful sobs melting into memories of a younger Chris, crying and pleading for mercy.
"You killed her! You killed her!" the woman screamed.
Chris's gaze snapped to her—the wild way she yanked the boy's hair, the madness burning in her eyes.
Hatred. The word echoed through his mind.
Maybe he was right. That look—he knew it.
His aunt had glared at him just like that when she screamed those same words.
"You killed her!"
"Let him go." Chris's voice cut through the room like a blade. Cold. Sharp. Dangerous.
"I said let him go!" he repeated, eyes burning with fury. Rage surged through his chest, fuelled by ghosts of the past.
It felt like the air shifted. The entire reception froze. All eyes turned toward the man standing at the corner.
The woman stood slowly, her teary crimson eyes locking onto Chris. When she saw the raw fury behind his stare, she let out a bitter snort.
"Why…" she gestured toward the door. "Why don't you just walk away, young man? Why waste your time on this little brat?"
Chris stepped forward. The soft thud of his shoes echoed through the tense silence. He stopped just inches from her, lips curling into a cold smile.
"Because he's not your son, right?" he asked, raising a brow. "Would you blame him if he was?"
"My son…" the woman shook her head fiercely. "My son wouldn't have watched his sister die in that fire!" she screamed.
Chris staggered back, the smell of burning smoke filling his nostrils. His mouth tasted bitter, like ash, and the image of the boy, kneeling next to the charred body of his sister, flooded his vision.
"Fire! Fire!" The distant screams echoed in his head.
Chris squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.
Could I really have saved her?
The floor spun beneath him. His vision blurred.
"This brat!" the woman shrieked, grabbing the boy's hair again. "I'll kill him too! I'll kill him!"
"Please! Please!" the boy cried.
Chris turned away, clutching his head. A groan escaped his lips as he stumbled forward.
Suddenly, the outside door burst open. Four police officers rushed into the building. Chris walked past them, the chaos behind him growing fainter with each step.
"Let me go! Let me kill him!" the woman screamed as the officers grabbed her arms and pulled her away from the boy. "Let me finish him!"
Chris stumbled into the parking lot, dragging his feet. He dropped the suitcase and leaned against the car, chest heaving.What Is this?He clenched his fists, the chaos replaying in his mind.
A sharp breath escaped him.
What made me stop? What pulled me back?
He groaned and exhaled sharply. As he opened the car door, he felt small hands grip his leg.
"Save me, Uncle! Please save me!"
Chris's chest clenched as he looked down at the boy—his tear-streaked face frozen in fear, glancing back toward the hospital doors like his aunt might still appear.
His hair tangled, a cut bleeding down his chin. His clothes were faded and torn, his small frame shaking like a leaf.
Chris opened his mouth, then stopped himself. His hands balled into fists, loosened, then curled tight again—like he was wrestling words he couldn't say.
"You… you got parents?"
The boy shook his head, his grip tightening.
Chris swallowed hard, staring at him. "You should go back."
"Please, Uncle! Don't leave me! I'm begging you… take me with you!" the boy cried, clinging to him with shaking hands and tear-filled eyes.
Chris looked at the boy's tear-streaked face, his grip still tight around his leg.A long breath left his lips. Then softly—almost like a whisper meant for himself—he asked:
"What's your name?"