Episode 1

I am Tria, and I’m a transferred doctor. The night was cloaked in an eerie stillness. Fog hung thick around the hospital walls like a heavy curtain, and even the wind had ceased to stir. It was the kind of silence that made the heart uneasy—unnatural and expectant, as though the air itself was holding its breath.

Then, without warning, a roar broke the silence. A distant, thunderous sound—like the growl of a hundred motorcycles—echoed through the night, growing louder with every second. Inside, panic took root. Nurses abandoned their posts, fleeing through side doors, too frightened to even glance outside. No one knew what was coming. No one dared to find out.

Drawn by a mix of dread and instinct, my eyes turned toward the hospital's main gate. Through the swirling fog, a figure emerged—tall, broad-shouldered, around six-foot-two or six-foot-three. His helmet was cracked, almost shattered. Blood soaked his clothes, and deep bullet wounds marked his torso. He staggered forward, breath ragged and shallow.

Fear spread like wildfire among those who remained, but I couldn't look away.

He collapsed just past the gate, pulled off what remained of his helmet, and, in a faint, broken voice, whispered, "Please... save me."

For a heartbeat, everything inside me stood still. The chaos, the fear—all of it faded into the background. All I could see were his eyes: deep brown, filled with exhaustion and pain, yet still carrying a flicker of life.

I rushed forward, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. "Don't worry. I'm here."

Without wasting a second, I brought him into the operating theatre. Time blurred into instinct as I worked. My hands moved swiftly, precisely—every second counted. By 1:30 a.m., I had managed to extract all the bullets lodged in his body. His vitals stabilized. He was alive.

After the operation, I sat beside his bed, trying to piece together the mystery.

Judging by the severity of his wounds, the attack had been deliberate, ruthless. A gang hit, perhaps? The thought sent a chill down my spine. But deeper still was something I couldn't quite explain—a pull toward him. A need to stay.

I glanced at him again. His face was handsome, though pale from blood loss. Something about him was... captivating. Magnetic. I couldn't look away.

The hospital, once alive with panic, had fallen quiet again. One by one, the staff left—no one wanted to stay in a place that felt cursed. I watched them go, noticing the strange, haunted look etched across each of their faces. Fear had settled in their bones.

It was exactly 2 a.m.

I hadn’t moved from his side. The monitors beside the bed beeped softly, a rhythmic reminder that life still clung to him, fragile but persistent. The rest of the hospital had descended into an uncanny silence. Only the occasional flicker of a ceiling light broke the stillness.

Then—I heard it.

Heavy boots. Four pairs, moving in unison. The sound echoed through the empty corridor, slow and deliberate. I froze. Every instinct screamed that something was wrong. My hand tightened on the armrest of the chair before I stood up slowly, heart pounding in my ears.

I stepped out into the hallway.

Through the dim emergency lights and thin film of mist curling through the doorways, I saw them—four tall figures approaching from the far end. They were all wearing black. Each of them had a helmet on, face completely concealed. Their gait was confident. Unshaken. As if they owned the ground they walked on.

I planted myself in the middle of the corridor and called out, “Who are you looking for at this hour?”

They didn’t respond at first—just kept walking, boots thudding against tile. But I held my ground, voice firmer now.

“I said—Who are you looking for at this hour?”

At last, the one at the front stopped. The others halted behind him like shadows. He turned his head slightly in my direction, helmet visor catching the corridor light.

“You already know,” he said, his voice low and distorted behind the helmet. “We’ve come for him.”

The man at the front took another step toward me, his presence towering and cold beneath the helmet. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, his voice broke the silence again—quieter this time, almost casual.

“Are you new here?” he asked.

There was something unsettling about the way he said it—like the question held layers beneath its surface.

I nodded, keeping my expression neutral. “Yes. I’m the new doctor on night duty.”

He tilted his head slightly, as though that answered something unspoken.

“If this man has any family,” I added, trying to keep my tone calm yet assertive, “you can fill out the hospital admission form at the front desk. Until then, he remains under my care.”

For a second, none of them moved. The corridor felt too quiet, too still, as if the very walls were holding their breath.

Then, without a word, the four turned and began to walk back down the hallway—boots echoing again, fading slowly into the distance.

But I didn’t feel relief.

Not yet.

Something in their silence chilled me more than threats ever could.

And deep down, I knew they would be back.

The silence lingered long after they disappeared down the corridor. I stood there for a few more seconds, trying to calm the storm still brewing in my chest. Then I turned and walked back to his room.

He hadn’t moved. Still unconscious. Still breathing. And still very much a mystery.

Who were they?

And more importantly—who was he?

[Scene Change]

Outside the hospital—several blocks away, cloaked in fog and silence.

The four men walked side by side, helmets off now, revealing sharp features hardened by countless battles. They weren’t just any group—they moved like a unit, bound by something stronger than loyalty. Something closer to blood.

Tom broke the silence first, a soft smirk tugging at his lips.

“Looks like an angel guarding our devil,” he said with a half-laugh, but there was no real amusement in his voice—only tired awe.

Alex chuckled under his breath, but there was a shadow behind his eyes. “You saw how she stood there? Not a flicker of fear.”

Tom nodded, then glanced at Ralph. “You sure she doesn’t know who he is?”

“She doesn’t,” Ralph replied, voice low, steady. “She’s just doing her job. No clue what kind of fire she just stepped into.”

Alex’s tone dropped, heavy with concern. “If she did… would she still have saved him?”

Silence.

Then Ralph, the one who had spoken to the doctor, slowed his steps. His eyes stayed locked on the path ahead, but his voice was laced with something deeper—respect, pain, and something almost like devotion.

“He’s not just one of us,” Ralph said. “He is us. He built the spine we walk on. Without him… we’re nothing.”

Tom and Alex exchanged looks, and the weight in their chests was the same.

They weren’t talking about a leader anymore.

They were talking about a brother.

A few moments passed before Zayne finally spoke, his voice low, certain—"I'm sure this is the work of the Oshiro family."

They got on the bike, the engine growling to life—and the fog wrapped tighter around them as they disappeared into the night.

[Scene Change - Back to the Hospital]

After watching them disappear into the fog, I turned back and quietly returned to his side. I sat quietly beside the man I had just pulled back from death—his breathing shallow, his face pale under the dim light.

I didn’t know who he was.

To me, he was just a stranger.

A man dropped at my hospital doors, broken and bleeding.

A man who whispered, “Please… save me.”

Those words lingered in my mind like a whisper caught in the wind.

I had done everything I could—the wounds cleaned, bullets removed, vitals stabilized. And now, as silence settled in the room and the monitors beeped softly in the background, exhaustion began to wrap around me like a blanket.

I rested my head against the chair, telling myself I would close my eyes just for a moment.

But the moment stretched.

And without realizing, I drifted into sleep—right there beside him.

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