The hospital room had fallen into its own rhythm of silence.
Dim light spilled from the hallway, stretching long, patient shadows across the floor. The flowers Matteo had brought sat in a glass jar by the bedside, their once-bright petals beginning to bow, as though they too were waiting—caught in the same suspended breath as the man who refused to leave.
Matteo had drifted into a restless sleep beside the bed. His head rested against the edge of the mattress, one hand loosely curled around Felix's fingers. His jacket slipped off one shoulder, his posture slumped, worn down by hours of stubborn vigilance.
In that unguarded moment, the steel edges of his face softened. His lips parted with each slow breath, his jaw no longer clenched in control. He looked younger—exhausted, but almost fragile. The kind of fragility no one would dare to speak aloud in his presence.
Outside the room, two of his men kept watch by the door. Their hushed voices filled the corridor, careful not to disturb the quiet inside.
"He's been in there for hours," one murmured, shifting uneasily. "Should we wake him?"
The other didn't even glance his way. His eyes stayed fixed on the closed door.
"Would you dare?"
A pause. The weight of the question was answer enough.
"…No."
The hall went still again, settling into the kind of silence that thickened with time.
Inside, Matteo stirred faintly. His brow furrowed, his breath catching for a moment before evening out again. But his hand remained—firm yet gentle—on the back of Felix's, as though even in sleep he feared letting go.
The room held its breath.
Then—
A voice.
Soft. Familiar.
"Matteo…"
It wasn't sharp. It wasn't loud. It carried instead like a ripple through water, muffled, echoing.
His lashes flickered. His mind scrambled toward the sound.
"Matteo…"
And there he was.
Felix.
Not still. Not pale and unmoving. But standing, whole, his figure blurred against a white, dreamlike haze. His smile was there, faint but achingly real. Yet his eyes—those eyes—were touched with sadness.
"Matteo," he whispered again, "I'm still here."
Matteo's heart lurched violently against his ribs. He surged forward, hands reaching out as if he could drag Felix back into his arms.
"Felix—wait—don't—"
But the space between them stretched like an ocean. His voice fractured against the emptiness.
He jerked upright, a sharp gasp tearing out of him.
The stiff hospital chair bit into his back as he dragged in heavy breaths, searching for something—anything—that wasn't slipping away.
The room was the same. The beeping of machines. The steady hum of the IV. The drooping flowers that hadn't moved. Felix's body, unchanged, still anchored in its terrifying stillness.
Matteo pressed a hand over his face, dragging it down with a shaky exhale. His chest still raced with the ghost of Felix's smile.
A buzz broke the silence. His phone, screen lit with dozens of missed calls. The time read 11:30 AM.
He had been asleep far too long.
The silence no longer felt gentle. It pressed in, heavy, restless. Matteo leaned closer, his eyes burning as they fixed on Felix's face. His whisper broke the stillness.
"I heard you," he said hoarsely. "Don't ask me how… but I did."
His hand trembled slightly as he reached forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from Felix's forehead. The motion was tender, reverent.
"I'm not leaving you. Not now. Not ever."
The bedside lamp flickered faintly, its glow spilling against the sterile white walls.
Matteo leaned back into the chair, his coat draped across his shoulders like a mantle of exhaustion. His eyes, still clouded from the dream, never left Felix's still hand on the sheet.
There was warmth there still. He swore it.
The door creaked softly, breaking the fragile quiet.
Two men entered—Marcos and Levi. Both dressed in black, both stiff with hesitation. Marcos spoke first, his voice low. "Sir, you didn't respond. We thought—"
Matteo lifted a hand, silencing him.
Levi shifted uneasily. "Do you want us to stay outside tonight?"
Matteo's gaze swept back to Felix before he exhaled slowly, sinking into the chair again. "No one comes in. Unless it's life or death."
"Understood," they murmured together.
The door shut quietly, leaving Matteo alone with the beeping, the hum, and the weight of his vigil.
He rubbed his eyes with one hand, the ache behind them sharp and unrelenting. This wasn't just fatigue—it was the accumulation of days he couldn't change, of words never spoken when they should have been, of emotions trapped between silence and fear.
He lowered his head until it rested against the edge of the bed. His hand found Felix's once more, holding it with quiet stubbornness.
"I'm not going anywhere tonight," he whispered to the stillness, as if making a vow.
And with that, the room—finally—seemed to breathe with him.
Morning light seeped through the curtains, pale gold spilling across polished marble. Matteo stirred awake in his own bed, though rest had eluded him entirely. The sheets were smooth, the room immaculate, yet it all felt unbearably empty.
No murmur beside him. No warmth. No voice. Only the city's faint hum rising beyond the glass.
His eyes landed on the calendar. One month. Two weeks.
His throat tightened. He rose slowly, not from lack of strength, but from the heaviness that clung to every step.
At the mirror, he dressed with mechanical precision. White shirt, cufflinks, tie, watch. Each motion sharp, exact, practiced. Yet the man reflected back at him wasn't whole.
His calm mask sat firmly in place, but beneath it were shadows—etched beneath his eyes, carved along the set of his jaw.
He grabbed the waiting folder from the console and left the room without looking back.
The house stirred silently as he moved through the halls. Staff bowed, servants froze in place. No one dared to break the silence.
The front door opened, and Matteo stepped into the morning.
The black car carried him through the city. Skyscrapers blurred past, traffic lights blinking like weary eyes through tinted glass.
Matteo sat rigid, phone in hand, scrolling through unread messages. He replied to none. His thumb lingered over the gallery app but never touched it.
Instead, he closed his eyes, retreating into the quiet.
The conference room gleamed like a mirror when he arrived. Tall windows let in a harsh spill of light.
The long glass table shone, surrounded by executives who already sat waiting—two Americans, a Korean rep, tablets poised in their hands.
Matteo entered with the authority of a man who belonged to no one but himself. His voice, cool and precise, filled the room.
"Good morning."
They rose briefly before settling. Matteo took the head seat, opening his folder with a deliberate motion.
"Let's begin."
The meeting spun into life—numbers, charts, markets, revenue streams. Matteo's tone was sharp, unwavering, slicing through hesitation with every word. When challenged, he didn't falter. When questioned, he didn't bend.
But under the table, his fingers pressed hard into each other, betraying the tension wound tightly in his chest.
"Your quarter returns outpaced ours in Southeast Asia," one American remarked. "That's aggressive. We want to understand the risks before committing to joint stakes."
Matteo's gaze was steady, cutting. "It's not aggression. It's foresight. You waited. We didn't."
The man blinked, caught off guard.
The Korean rep studied him more carefully. "Your campaigns leaned heavily into emotional branding. That's not your division's history. Why the change?"
For a brief second, Matteo's eyes flicked to the screen. An image from their campaign glowed there—two figures holding hands under a lamplight, tagline beneath: Belong, even when you're lost.
His voice dropped, softer, edged with something private. "People don't buy numbers. They buy meaning. We adjusted."
The rep's stylus paused, her lips curving faintly. "Impressive."
Matteo's gaze hardened again, snapping the moment closed. "Next."
The meeting rolled on. He commanded every question, sealed every gap. The presentation ended without flaw, leaving no cracks in the armor he wore.
And yet—every so often—his eyes flicked to the clock. His breaths caught as though straining for a voice that wasn't there.
When the meeting ended, chairs scraped softly against marble. Executives murmured thanks, shook hands, and filed out.
But Matteo didn't rise. He sat at the head of the table, staring at the empty screen.
His assistant lingered at the door. "Sir, shall I prepare the midday call with Berlin?"
Matteo's reply was quiet, almost too quiet. "No. Reschedule."
The folder closed with a soft snap. His next words left no room for question.
"I'll be at the hospital."
The assistant didn't ask which one. He only nodded.