In Room 402, the ticking of the wall clock hit the silence like a sledgehammer. Every second was a slow crawl of agony, echoing against the pale, sterile walls. The short hand had dragged itself past six, then seven, and now sat perched precisely at eight.
Rena sat motionless on the edge of the bed. She was no longer in her hospital gown, but in a sharp, casual outfit. Her small suitcase stood sentry by the bedpost—a silent reminder that she was due back in the world that demanded perfection: CLOVER. Her eyes never truly focused on anything in the room, except for the wooden door handle that hadn't budged since dawn.
"Enough, Rena!" Nadia finally snapped. She stood up from the waiting chair, her face flushed with irritation. "We've been waiting two hours! That man is playing you. Never put your faith in a criminal like him."
Rena remained silent, squeezing her fingers until they were as cold as ice.
Near the door, Clarissa stood as rigid as a statue. Beneath her flawless professional veneer, her palms were slick with sweat inside her blazer pockets. She had received the report from Erebos at seven: they were in the basement parking lot, but her Young Master was still unconscious.
Clarissa was trapped in an impossible position. She knew Ren was there—broken and bleeding—but she couldn't say a word without dismantling a secret far larger than this room.
"My apologies, Ms. Nadia," Clarissa interjected, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to stabilize it. "Please... just ten more minutes. I know the Young Master will come."
Giovanni, who had been scrolling through discharge papers on his tablet, glanced at his watch with a furrowed brow. As a manager, logic was taking the wheel. "Ten minutes, Ms. Clarissa. After that, we leave. The quarantine schedule waits for no one."
At that same moment in the basement, the thick darkness was finally peeling away from Ren's vision. The first thing he felt was the sharp, biting sting of antiseptic, mingling with the scent of leather car seats. His head throbbed in time with the low hum of the sedan's engine.
Ren let out a raspy groan, trying to pry open eyelids that felt like lead. The world was still a spinning blur.
"Young Master, are you awake?" Erebos's voice came heavy from the driver's seat.
Ren pressed his palm to his temple. He realized his clothes had been changed—a clean shirt now covered him—though the raw burn in his palms and abdomen was very real beneath the fresh bandages.
"I found you on the lower deck of a deserted ship, Young Master. You were out cold," Erebos explained. "Someone gave you first aid there. The wounds were closed... crudely, but it was effective enough to stop the bleeding. If they hadn't... you might not have made it back to shore."
Ren went still. His memory flickered back to a tattered silhouette in a brown cloak, dragging him through a storm. But curiosity was quickly devoured by urgency. His eyes caught the digital clock on the dashboard.
08:05.
His heart skipped a beat. "Erebos! The hospital... Now!"
"We're already in the basement, Young Master," Erebos replied calmly. "Clarissa is doing her best to stall Ms. Rena's departure."
Ren Grit his teeth, ignoring the white-hot pain that flared with every movement. He didn't have time for the slow crawl of the main elevator. "Then get Clarissa on the line!"
Back in Room 402, Nadia's patience had finally evaporated. She snatched the handle of Rena's suitcase. "Let's go, Rena. There's no point in waiting for a ghost. Mr. Giovanni, have the car ready."
Rena stood up, her heart feeling like lead. She cast one last look at the door, her eyes dimming. The disappointment was a physical weight, but she didn't have the strength to argue anymore. Her steps felt hollow as she began to walk out.
"Wait! Ms. Rena!" Clarissa suddenly blocked their path at the threshold. The phone in her hand was still glowing.
"What now?" Nadia hissed.
Clarissa looked at Rena with an expression that was hard to read—a desperate mix of relief and urgency. "The Young Master..."
Clarissa relayed the message from her screen.
Rena looked up, the light returning to her eyes in a sudden flash. Without waiting for a command from Giovanni or a protest from Nadia, she bolted. She ignored her manager's shouts; she ignored the sting in her forehead where her wound was still healing. She sprinted through the long corridors toward the emergency stairs, her heart thumping in rhythm with a rekindled hope.
She burst through the door leading to the rear garden. The fresh morning air hit her face, but her eyes searched for only one thing among the rows of weeping willows.
There, in the deepest shadow of the furthest tree, a man stood leaning against a stone pillar. He was dressed in a clean, short-sleeved shirt, yet he looked more unraveled than he had the day before. The shirt didn't sit quite right, as if it had been thrown hastily over a fragile frame.
His shoulders looked weary, and there was a pallor to his skin that even the morning sun couldn't hide. But it was him. The man from her memories.
Rena stepped forward, her feet moving on their own. Her eyes locked onto the jarring contrast of his hands. His right palm was wrapped in thick white gauze that webbed between his fingers—so bulky it would have been impossible for him to wear his tactical gloves. His left hand, however, remained encased in its signature black leather. A strange, haunting asymmetry.
The sight of the bandages peeking out from beneath his sleeves didn't make her flinch. She kept moving, carrying the full weight of her emotions to claim a promise that had cost him his lifeblood.
Ren knew she was there before her feet even touched the grass. He turned slowly—a small movement that demanded a high price from the wound in his gut. Their eyes met. There, under the morning light filtering through the leaves, Rena stood breathless, her cheeks flushed from the run.
For a moment, the world around them went mute. The hospital's white noise was replaced by a silence filled only by the sigh of the wind.
Ren didn't speak immediately. He glanced at the watch strapped over his left glove, then at Rena's feet, imagining how tired she must be from searching for him. He let out a sharp, shallow breath—a gesture heavy with suppressed regret.
"Two hours," Ren began, his voice raspy and deeper than usual. He winced slightly as he shifted his weight, trying not to look as broken as he felt. "I kept you waiting too long."
Rena didn't stop. She closed the distance until she could smell the faint tang of sea salt and antiseptic clinging to him.
"It's okay," she whispered, her voice trembling between relief and tears. "I knew you'd come."
Ren fell silent, watching her with an unreadable intensity. In his mind, an old, dusty memory began to play. The silhouette of a girl with that same hue of pink hair from his past felt so real now, overlapping with the girl standing before him.
Rena squeezed her nervous hands. The chaos at the restaurant had left them both with the same trauma, but it hadn't given them the space to even trade names. She took a long, steadying breath.
"Rena," she said softly, introducing herself formally for the first time. "My name is Rena."
For Ren, hearing the name wasn't a shock. The suspicion that had haunted him since last night hardened into a cold certainty. That name was the source of every burden he had carried. The girl in front of him wasn't just a stranger he'd saved on instinct; she was the living embodiment of a debt he had never paid.
For a split second, the pain in his hands and stomach seemed to evaporate, replaced by a strange sensation—that perhaps, finally, he could step out from the shadow of his guilt.
The name hung on the tip of his tongue, but he chose silence. To him, speaking the name 'Rena' felt like touching an open wound—too fragile, too dangerous. He simply gave a small nod, forcing his features back into that impenetrable, icy mask.
Yet his eyes remained fixed on her. In the dappled light of the garden, her face was far more real than the pink-haired ghost he'd glimpsed in that optics shop a year ago. Back then, he had lost her trail in a panic; now, fate had dragged her right to him.
Rena looked down for a moment. Her heart was a storm: relief that he was here, but anxiety as the clock on her CLOVER quarantine ticked down. She didn't know how to ask what she needed to ask.
She looked up again, braving his deep, orange eyes. "About the reward you promised..." she began, her voice steadying.
Ren didn't interrupt. He stood rigid, listening to every syllable. He was ready to give her anything—even if it meant walking back into hell to make sure she kept breathing.