"Honey… you don't have many days left to live. To ease your mental burden, please sign this divorce agreement."
Ethan Cole lay on the ICU bed, his body weak, his breathing shallow.
For a moment, everything inside him went quiet.
Then slowly, he opened his eyes.
At the foot of the bed stood his wife, Lily Cole, neatly holding a stack of printed papers. The soft rustling of A4 sheets sounded unusually loud in the sterile silence. She looked composed—almost elegant—in a form-fitting dress that didn't belong in a place like this.
Ethan recognized it immediately.
Just last week, she had posted photos online—smiling brightly in a fitting room, the tag still hanging from the dress.
That same day, he had been leaning against a hospital wall after dialysis, trying to breathe through the pain.
"Mom! You're going too far!"
A figure rushed to his side.
It was his daughter, Emma Cole.
Ethan felt a faint warmth in his chest.
"Dad's in the ICU and you're making him sign divorce papers?" Emma shouted. "Can't you wait until he's gone? He's still my biological father!"
Biological father.
Ethan's eyes flickered.
He looked at them both—
the daughter he had raised…
and the woman he had sacrificed everything for.
A quiet, bitter realization settled in.
He had lived his entire life for others.
And this… was how it ended.
If he had another chance—
He wouldn't make the same mistake.
At that moment, a cold voice echoed in his mind.
[Host detected in near-death condition. Survival intent confirmed.]
[Binding requirements met.]
[System activated: Dual Cultivation Life Extension System.]
Ethan froze.
Was this… real?
[System Description: Interaction with compatible partners can extend the host's lifespan. Each successful session restores physical condition and grants a Rejuvenation Pill.]
[Current condition: Late-stage kidney failure.]
[Estimated remaining lifespan: 36 hours.]
[Urgent: Complete first session as soon as possible.]
For a second, Ethan said nothing.
Then… he laughed.
Softly.
Barely audible.
Lily frowned and said coldly, "If you can still move," "come to the Agency of social Affairs at 8 AM the day after tomorrow."
He didn't respond.
Instead, with trembling fingers, he signed the divorce papers.
That chapter of his life was over.
---
Night fell.
The ward grew quiet, lights dimmed.
At around nine, the door opened gently.
A nurse stepped inside.
Her name was Sophia Reed.
She moved with calm efficiency—checking readings, adjusting equipment, recording numbers without wasting a second. Her expression remained neutral, focused.
[Scanning potential partner…]
Name: Sophia Reed
Age: 23
Health: Excellent
Compatibility: 78%
Estimated lifespan extension: +3 days
Reward:- Rejuvenation pill.
Ethan watched her quietly.
When she turned to leave—
"Nurse…"
His voice was rough, barely holding together.
Sophia paused and looked back. "Yes?"
"Can you… stay for a moment?"
She hesitated, then stepped closer to the bed.
"What is it?"
Ethan didn't answer immediately.
He seemed to be searching for the right words.
"I need help," he said finally.
"With what?" she asked.
Something in his tone made her cautious.
Ethan glanced briefly at the monitor, then back at her.
"It's not something I can explain clearly," he said. "But… it's important."
Sophia's brows knit slightly. "If it's medical, I can call a doctor."
"It's not," he said.
That made her pause.
"Then what kind of help are you asking for?" she pressed.
Ethan met her eyes for a moment… then looked away.
"…Something personal."
The air in the room shifted.
Sophia straightened slightly, her expression cooling.
"I don't handle personal requests," she said.
Ethan didn't stop her as she stepped back.
"Wait," he said quietly.
She didn't.
The sound of her footsteps echoed softly as she reached the door.
Her hand touched the handle.
Then—
"I can compensate you."
That made her pause.
Just for a second.
But she didn't turn around.
Instead, she opened the door slightly and stepped halfway out.
The hallway light spilled into the dim ward.
Ethan's voice came again, slightly louder this time.
"Six hundred."
No response.
The door remained half-open.
He swallowed.
"One thousand."
Silence.
The door moved a little more.
"Three thousand."
The footsteps stopped.
The door didn't close.
For a moment, everything was still.
Then—
The door shut.
A few seconds later, it opened again.
Sophia stepped back inside.
This time, she didn't look confused.
She looked… thoughtful.
She walked back toward the bed slowly, stopping just beside him.
"What exactly are you asking for?" she said.
Her tone was calm—but guarded.
Ethan didn't answer directly.
Instead, he said, "Nothing extreme."
She watched him closely.
"Then why not explain it clearly?" she asked.
"Because," he replied quietly, "if I say it wrong, you'll leave again."
Sophia didn't speak.
Her gaze lingered on him—measuring, evaluating.
"You don't look like someone joking," she said after a moment.
"I'm not."
Another silence.
The steady beep of the monitor filled the space between them.
"…How much?" she asked finally.
Ethan exhaled slowly.
"Five thousand."
Sophia didn't react immediately.
She looked at him for a long second—then at the machines, the IV line, the frail state he was in.
"…You can barely move," she said.
"I know."
"And you still think this matters?"
Ethan's voice was calm.
"It's the only thing that does."
That answer made her hesitate.
For the first time, uncertainty crossed her face.
Not disgust.
Not anger.
Just… hesitation.
She exhaled quietly.
"This doesn't leave this room," she said.
"It won't."
"And if I don't like what you're asking for, I walk away."
Ethan nodded faintly. "That's fair."
Sophia stood there for another second.
Then—
Slowly, she reached out and touched the collar of his hospital shirt.
Her fingers paused briefly… as if giving herself one last moment to reconsider.
Then she began unbuttoning it.
One button.
Then another.
The soft sound of fabric shifting filled the quiet room.
Without looking at him, she stepped to the side and pulled the curtain around the bed.
The outside world disappeared.
The space closed in.
And the steady rhythm of the monitor was the only thing left to mark the passing time.