Chapter 04 ~ Take a breath
The sharp, echoing crash of the metal tray against the linoleum floor acted like a bucket of ice water.
Kurapika gasped, the suffocating grip of the nightmare suddenly loosening just enough for him to register the bright, clinical lights of the room. He blinked rapidly. The searing heat behind his eyes began to cool, and the terrifying, luminous scarlet slowly bled away, returning his irises to their natural, exhausted gray.
He looked at the young nurse. She was pressed against the wall, trembling, her eyes wide with lingering fear.
The heavy, predatory pressure in the room vanished. Kurapika swallowed hard, his throat feeling like sandpaper. He slowly uncurled his tense hands.
"I... I apologize," he whispered, his voice incredibly hoarse and fragile, sounding exactly like the fifteen-year-old boy he was. "I didn't... I didn't mean to frighten you."
The nurse let out a shaky, stuttering breath. The terrifying aura that had filled the room was gone, replaced by the heartbreaking sight of a terrified, exhausted teenager. Her professional training fought through her panic. She took a cautious step forward, giving him a gentle, reassuring nod.
"It's... it's alright," she said softly, keeping her voice incredibly calm. "You had a severe panic attack. You are in the Central London Medical Center. You're safe here." She picked up a few of the fallen instruments, her hands still trembling slightly. "Please, try to catch your breath. I am going to go page your doctor so he can check on you."
She offered him one last sympathetic look before quickly slipping out of the door.
The room fell into a heavy, deafening silence. The only sound was the steady, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.
"I'm in a hospital..." Kurapika murmured to himself, the words tasting hollow on his tongue.
Suddenly, a sharp, violent spike of pain pierced his temples. He closed his eyes, and instantly, the dam broke. The ruined courtyard flashed behind his eyelids with merciless clarity. The smell of ash and copper. The cold, suffocating darkness of the steel vault. The mutilated, empty faces of his parents staring up at the gray sky.
He opened his eyes, staring at the sterile white ceiling. It wasn't a nightmare. It wasn't a bad dream his mind had fabricated. The slaughter was real. His family was gone.
Hot, stinging tears pooled in his eyes, blurring his vision. He looked down at his trembling hands, wrapped in bandages—the same hands that had pounded uselessly against the bunker door while his clan was being massacred above him.
He reached down and grabbed the pristine hospital sheets. His fingers curled inward, gripping the fabric so tightly. He dug his short nails through the cloth and deep into his own palms, desperate for a physical pain to ground the agonizing tearing in his chest. He gritted his teeth, his shoulders beginning to shake violently.
"I couldn't protect them," he choked out, his voice cracking, thick with a crushing, absolute frustration.
Tears spilled over his eyelashes, dropping onto his knuckles. He bowed his head, his body folding inward beneath the unbearable weight of his survivor's guilt.
"I couldn't do anything... I couldn't do anything for them."
Out in the sterile hallway, the night nurse hurried back with Dr. Harrison close behind her. As they approached Room 412, the doctor suddenly stopped, putting a hand out to halt the nurse.
Detective Chief Inspector Miller was standing right outside the door.
The seasoned, hardened detective had his hand hovering mere inches from the door handle, but he was completely frozen. He was leaning heavily against the wall, his head bowed, his eyes squeezed tightly shut in pained resignation.
Through the slight gap in the heavy door, the muffled, broken sobs of a boy bled into the hallway. "I couldn't protect them..."
Dr. Harrison looked at the Inspector's pale face and immediately understood. Miller had come to do his job. He had come to ask the hard questions, to push for details about the Phantom Troupe to build his case. But the sheer, agonizing gravity of the boy's grief had paralyzed him. The reality of a child mourning the slaughter of an entire bloodline was a tragedy so immense, so suffocating, that it froze the hardened detective exactly where he stood.
Miller exhaled a shaky breath, opening his eyes. He looked at Dr. Harrison, offered a silent, defeated nod, and took a step back, giving the physician the space he needed.
Dr. Harrison pushed the door open gently and stepped into the dim room.
Kurapika didn't look up. He remained hunched over, his hands gripping the sheets like a lifeline, tears falling silently onto the blanket.
The doctor didn't rush to the medical monitors. He didn't pull out a notepad or a flashlight. Instead, he pulled up a small chair and sat down slowly by the bed, keeping a respectful distance so as not to crowd the grieving boy.
"My name is Dr. Harrison," he began, his voice incredibly gentle, acting as a soft, steady anchor in the violent storm of Kurapika's mind. "You are safe here, Kurapika."
Kurapika squeezed his eyes shut, his grip on the sheets tightening.
"You are fifteen years old," the doctor continued, his tone filled with profound, professional empathy. "What happened to your home... what you witnessed... it is a burden that no one, especially someone your age, should ever have to carry."
Kurapika let out a shuddering breath, the mention of his age serving as a cruel reminder of his own powerlessness.
"You survived," Dr. Harrison said softly, leaning forward slightly. "Right now, your body is in this bed, but I know your mind is still back in that courtyard. My job is to help you find your way out of the ash. You do not have to be strong today. You do not have to figure out the future today. Right now, all you need to do is breathe."
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