"Sir, the surgery is going to cost way more than we had estimated," a man in a doctor's uniform said.
He was clutching a clipboard with a pen in one hand, his knuckles white as he talked to a teenage boy who looked like he couldn't be older than twenty.
"I don't care how much it costs, just make this man well again," the young man shouted, his voice echoing down the sterile hospital corridor.
He was wearing a black leather jacket with a white tee and stretched-out jeans. His fists were clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms.
"But Mr. Philip, sir, even if the surgery ended with success—which has chapa success rate of thirty out of a hundred—this is still not a permanent solution," the doctor argued, his voice shaking as he took a step back.
"We would simply be risking his life in the hope of extending it by a few months," he continued, his hands trembling as he showed the clipboard to him.
Philip snatched the clipboard from the doctor so hard the man flinched. He inspected its contents, his jaw clenching tighter with every word he read.
'Mayo Clinic'—the hospital name was branded on top of the sheet in bold letters, one of the most renowned hospitals in the world. Known for its high-quality care and patient outcomes.
'DERRICK BELMORT, glioblastoma multiforme'—the patient's name and disease were listed below in cold, clinical print.
The patient listed was suffering from a fast-growing brain tumor and had been bedridden for the past two months, showing no signs of recovery.
Philip read the content repeatedly, his expression growing darker, his brows furrowing deeper with each second. The fluorescent lights above flickered slightly, casting harsh shadows across his face.
'These motherfuckers. They were all bright and sunshine when we arrived, going as far as promising me they would definitely cure Derrick.'
'We've been here for two months already, taking any treatment they suggested, and yet Derrick's condition seems like it's getting worse by the day.'
Philip's finger shot out, jabbing towards the already intimidated doctor. "Then what am I to do here, huh?"
"Are you suggesting that I wait around doing nothing until my friend dies? Is that what you're saying?" His voice cracked at the end, raw emotion bleeding through despite his anger.
The doctor frantically waved his hands in front of his chest like he was trying to shield himself. "No, no, no, sir, I was just stating the risk factors and possibilities." Sweat was beading on his forehead now.
The doctor was clearly older than Philip but couldn't do much against the weight of the name in front of him.
The man standing before him was Philip Whitmore.
The only son of Richard Whitmore, the co-founder of Whitmore Corporation, a multimillion-dollar organization holding assets of Whitmore International Bank, hotels, and stock firms.
The man listed on the clipboard, Derrick, on the other hand, was not financially remarkable. He was a middle-class student at Ashford Global who happened to get along with Philip.
After six years of friendship, Derrick was diagnosed with a brain tumor, which led to the current situation.
The whole hospital board committee was present when Philip and Derrick first arrived. And now that they'd confirmed Derrick's illness couldn't be treated, they sent Dr. Mason Clarke, the head surgeon of the clinic, to receive the backlash alone and somehow de-escalate the situation.
Philip rubbed his temples roughly, his fingers pressing hard against his skull like he was trying to squeeze out the frustration. He let out a long, shaky sigh that seemed to drain all the fight out of him for a moment. "Whatever it is, don't stop looking for new possibilities," he said, his voice suddenly flat and exhausted.
He knew Dr. Mason was just a scapegoat from the higher-ups, to make sure they wouldn't get Philip's outburst directly.
Philip then stormed off towards the end of the hallway, his footsteps heavy and echoing against the polished white floors. He stopped at the door of a private room, his hand hovering over the handle for just a moment.
*Knock knock.*
Without waiting for a response, he pushed the door open.
It was a large, spacious room with a bed and a television mounted diagonally opposite the entrance. Afternoon sunlight filtered through half-drawn blinds, casting striped shadows across the floor. The room was cool and fresh, with a nostalgic smell of freshly laundered sheets mixed with the faint antiseptic scent that clung to everything in hospitals.
In one corner, multiple gifts and balloons were placed—bright, cheerful colors that felt almost mocking in this space. There was a Nintendo Switch and an Xbox, which could be connected to the monitor, along with some books stacked neatly but clearly untouched.
A sleep-deprived man with pale skin and a skeletal build slept on the bed, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. From his looks, he was clearly not in the state to use any of the things they'd brought for him.
He had a beanie on to cover his bald head from radiotherapy, pulled down low. A nasal cannula was looped around his ears, constantly supplying oxygen to his body with a quiet hiss.
Even with the hospital gown covering him, one could easily tell from his sunken cheeks and dark-circled eyes that he was suffering. His skin looked paper-thin, almost translucent under the harsh hospital lighting.
"How's it going there, buddy?" Philip slowly walked up to him, his movements careful and quiet, like he was afraid to disturb the fragile stillness. He sat down on a stool beside the bed, the metal legs scraping softly against the floor.
"Philly," Derrick slowly opened his eyes, each blink seeming to take enormous effort. His voice was barely above a whisper, raspy and dry. "I told you, you didn't have to come every day. Plus, I can feel my body getting stronger."
"I'll be out in no time," he replied tiredly, his hand fumbling for the button that made the bed support him upright. The motor whirred quietly as the bed adjusted.
'This lying son of a bitch.'
'He must've already heard it from the doctor, yet he's saying crap like this straight to my face.'
"Like hell you are. I could probably fill a liter of water in those sunken cheeks of yours."
"I thought you were cosplaying a zombie at first." Philip pointed towards his face, his finger practically poking the air.
"It's already a miracle that the nurses aren't running from you screaming."
Philip said this with his face dead serious, not a hint of a smile, which somehow made it funnier.
"Well, your face looks fine. I don't see a group of cheerleaders surrounding you," Derrick shot back, his head slowly turning as he made a big show of looking around the empty room with an exaggerated dumb look plastered on his face.
The two went back and forth, their voices getting louder, more animated, until one of them finally ran out of comebacks and just resorted to making faces at the other.
This was an usual interaction between the two. If anyone were to eavesdrop, they would have thought the two hated each other to their very core.
But that wasn't the case. With Philip's background as a snobby rich kid, he never knew how to express his feelings properly and would lash out at others, like a young boy pulling the hair of the girl he liked.
As time passed, he'd somewhat grown past that stage in his life, but Derrick had adapted to it well, throwing back insults whenever he had the chance with equal enthusiasm.
That was the type of friendship they had.
---
"You know the first thing I wanna do after I get discharged?" Derrick said with a smirk spreading across his pale face as he looked at Philip with that familiar mischievous glint in his tired eyes.
"What?" Philip replied, already bracing himself.
"I'm gonna go on a date with the blonde nurse and get busy all night long," Derrick said with a chuckle that turned into a slight wheeze as he stared up at the ceiling tiles like he was imagining the whole thing playing out above him.
"Pffft... No shot that happens," Philip interjected, his face scrunching up in complete disbelief, eyebrows practically hitting his hairline.
"Plus, with your current condition, I bet my right hand you'll be shooting blanks for the next two weeks," he continued, dramatically holding his right hand up in the air and jabbing his finger at it like he was making some kind of sacred oath.
This wasn't entirely false. With Derrick's condition of constantly losing weight, vomiting blood with a bad appetite, his testosterone was at an all-time low.
"Haha, very funny. Then I won't do it," Derrick said, his grin getting even wider.
"If you bet your right hand, you'll be risking your whole sex life with it," he continued and burst out laughing at his own joke, his shoulders shaking.
Philip quickly yanked his hand down, his face flushing red as he stared daggers at Derrick while the bastard laughed his ass off like it was the funniest thing in the world.
The two continued to chat, their laughter bouncing off the walls, smiles plastered on their faces despite everything. Neither wanted to be the one to bring the heavy situation to light, to pop this little bubble they'd created.
They talked until it was late evening. Through the window, a reddish line of sun outlined the horizon, the sky turning shades of orange and purple as darkness slowly crept across the land like a blanket being pulled over the world.
"Then... what do you want most in life? Not what you want to be—what is the thing you want most?" Philip asked, his voice softer now, more casual as he leaned back in his chair.
Derrick paused for a moment, his smile fading into something more genuine. He looked at Philip with a knowing expression, the kind that said 'here we go again.'
"I already told you, Philip...
I want a harem. A yandere harem."
"A variety of women who all love me to the core."
"They would love me so much, day and night would be a fantasy for me, and I would love each and every one of them with all my heart for the rest of my time on earth."
"That's what I want," he answered, his voice filled with this weird mix of longing and conviction.
Philip let out a tired sigh, his shoulders sagging as he dragged a hand down his face. They'd had these conversations several times before, and Derrick's answer was always the same.
Not a peaceful life without worry.
Not a private island he could live on.
Or a blissful night with a woman of his dreams.
He wanted a yandere harem more than anything.
"For the hundredth time, I can pay people to do that for you. You can pick them if you want."
"Models, pop stars, actresses—whatever you want." Philip started counting on his fingers as he listed the options, each finger going up with increasing frustration.
"I can make it happen exactly as you imagined in your head," Philip said, leaning forward now, looking at Derrick with all the seriousness he could muster.
"Think about it."
This time, he hoped—really hoped—Derrick would agree to it.
Derrick was Philip's only friend whom Philip knew wasn't his friend for his money, so Philip wanted to do anything he could to fulfill whatever desires he had in his remaining time on earth.
"And for the thousandth time," Derrick said, plopping his head back onto his pillow with an audible thump, his beanie sliding slightly.
"That's not what I want."
"It's not genuine. That's like paying a hooker to be your wife... or something. You get the idea."
Derrick rambled on, his hands moving animatedly despite his weakness, going on about how paying wouldn't be the same. He even questioned why having a yandere harem wasn't every man's dream, insisting that Philip would be really happy if he had one too.
But Philip just didn't get it, his face twisted in confusion.
Why would anyone want not one, but multiple women obsessed with you and fawning over you all the time?
Philip watched as Derrick tried desperately to prove his point, his voice getting more passionate even as his body clearly struggled to keep up.
"You are sick. You are a very sick man, you know that," Philip said, shaking his head slowly with this look of mock concern on his face.
"And I know the root of all this, this thing of yours," Philip said, his hand swirling around in circles in the air, like he was physically indicating the roots of Derrick's obsession wrapping around his brain.
"Albedo."
"That character did a good job planting this disease inside your head," Philip said as he tapped his own temple repeatedly with his index finger.
Although not noticeable from their appearance, these two friends were hardcore weebs up until they finished high school.
And Albedo was a character from an anime that gave Derrick his idea.
Derrick chuckled, the sound soft and a bit breathless. "You might be right."
The room fell into silence once more. The only sounds were the quiet beeping of machines and the hiss of oxygen flowing through the cannula.
"Hey," Derrick called out, his voice barely above a whisper as he stared into the distance, his eyes unfocused like he was looking at something far away that only he could see.
"I also know you want to do something for me despite all you've already done."
"And I really appreciate all of it. I do."
Derrick paused, his throat working as he swallowed hard. He let out a long, shaky sigh before continuing.
"But you have to understand there are some things in this life that can't be bought with money," Derrick remarked, his voice carrying this weight that made Philip's chest tighten.
Philip could sense Derrick's intention, the unspoken words hanging between them. But he was already aware of the fact.
When Derrick's condition kept getting worse over the past month, Philip found himself truly helpless and realized that money could only do so much. All the wealth in the world couldn't buy what his friend needed most.
"And if I ever—*cough*" Before Derrick could continue his sentence, he started coughing violently, his whole body convulsing with the force of it.
Blood spewed all over his hand as he desperately covered his mouth, red droplets splattering onto the white sheets.
"Derrick!!!" Philip cried out, his chair scraping loudly as he shot to his feet.
He practically sprinted to the door, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"Nurse!!!" Philip's voice cracked as he screamed into the hallway, his hand slamming against the doorframe.
The next moment, several nurses and doctors came rushing from the next room like they'd been on standby, their shoes squeaking against the polished floor as they ran.
They flooded into the room and quickly swarmed around Derrick's bed, hands moving in practiced motions as they checked his vitals.
"Nurse, get me a suction machine and level up his oxygen," Dr. Mason barked out orders, his voice cutting through the chaos.
"What is it, doctor? Is my friend gonna be okay?" Philip frantically asked, his voice high and desperate as he watched the staff move in a coordinated dance around the bed.
He kept pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his hands running through his hair, pulling at the strands.
"Mr. Philip, please wait outside. We'll do everything we can," one of the nurses instructed firmly, her hands on his shoulders as she physically guided him towards the door.
"Why is he like that? What happened?" Philip asked, his voice breaking as he was escorted out of the room, his feet dragging against the floor.
"Why are you like that?!?!" His voice cracked completely on the last word, desperation and fear bleeding through every syllable.
The door shut in his face with a heavy click, the solid wood making it impossible to see or hear anything going on inside.
Derrick weakly cracked his eyes open one last time as the door swung shut. Through the narrowing gap between the nurses crowded around him, he could just barely make out Philip's silhouette on the other side.
'That bastard. Such a crybaby,' he thought, and despite everything—the blood, the pain, the machines beeping frantically around him—he let out a peaceful smile that softened his gaunt features.
He shut his eyes once more as gentle hands cleaned the blood from his face with warm, damp cloths.
'Dear God,'
'If you are out there,'
'I wish for my friend to experience all the things that I couldn't.'