No one tells you that when someone wakes from a coma, it isn't like the movies. There's no triumphant music, no miracle moment. Just a flicker of movement, fragile and uncertain.
That was how Wooyoung came back.
First, the twitch of his fingers.
Then a raw, dragging breath.
Finally, his eyes opened—dazed and distant, as if he was trying to remember how to exist in his own skin.
Rain lashed the windows. The sky hadn't cleared since the surgery.
His mother had dozed off in the chair beside the bed, her cheek pressed against the back of his hand. Saeron sat curled in the corner, her knees drawn to her chest. She'd stopped counting how many hours she'd spent there, listening to the machines that kept him tethered to the world.
She almost didn't notice when he blinked.
"…Mom?" His voice was a hoarse croak.
Mrs. Jung jerked upright, her hand flying to his cheek. "Wooyoung—oh, thank God—Wooyoungie—"
Saeron scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over the blanket. She hovered at the foot of the bed, hands trembling.
"Oppa," she whispered. "You're awake."
He turned his head slowly. His gaze found hers, glassy and confused.
"Saeron?"
A small, shaky laugh escaped her lips. She swiped tears off her face with the heel of her palm. "You idiot," she choked out. "You scared us."
His brow furrowed as if he was trying to piece together a puzzle no one else could see.
"…Why am I still here?"
Mrs. Jung pressed her forehead to his. "Because you're strong. Because you came back to us."
He didn't answer. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, hollow.
"You should have let me go."
A sob tore from Saeron's chest. She covered her mouth, but she couldn't stop the sound.
The door swung open without warning.
A man stepped in, black raincoat dripping onto the tile. Choi San. Even soaked to the bone, he radiated the cold authority of someone who never heard the word no.
Saeron's tears froze in her throat.
Mrs. Jung straightened, her hand protectively over Wooyoung's heart. "Get out," she hissed. "He's not yours."
San didn't acknowledge her. His gaze locked on Wooyoung. "You're awake sooner than expected."
"Please," Mrs. Jung begged. "Please, just let him recover—"
"He belongs to us," San said quietly. "We made that clear."
"No," Saeron whispered. "No—you said—"
San finally looked at her. His expression didn't change. "You should leave the room if you don't want to watch this."
She felt her knees threaten to give out. But she didn't move. She took two steps closer to Wooyoung's bed and wrapped both hands around his.
"I'm not leaving him," she said, voice shaking.
Wooyoung swallowed. His eyes met hers—still dazed, but full of something that broke her in half. Regret.
"I'm sorry," he rasped.
"Don't," she whispered. "Don't say goodbye. You promised."
"I can't fight them anymore."
Mrs. Jung reached for the call button, but San nodded once. Two men in black moved behind her, catching her arms before she could press it.
Saeron lunged forward, wrapping herself around her brother's shoulders, trying to shield him with her small frame.
"Don't take him—please—I'll do anything—"
"You can't stop this," San said calmly.
Rain thundered against the windows as they pried her arms away. She screamed, thrashing against the hands dragging her back.
"Oppa!"
Wooyoung didn't struggle. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling again, empty.
"Saeron," he whispered. "Don't watch."
She tried to break free. She tried until her voice cracked and her muscles gave out. But they still took him.
When they carried him out into the corridor, he didn't look back.
She collapsed to her knees in the space he'd left behind, the sheets still warm from his body, the rain still beating against the glass like a warning no one could hear.
Outside, the car carrying Wooyoung disappeared into the darkness, the red glow of its taillights shrinking until there was nothing left.
Mrs. Jung crumpled to the pavement, her hands pressed over her face. Saeron stood beside her, rooted to the spot, her heart hammering like it might tear free from her chest.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The drizzle turned to steady rain, soaking their hair and clothes, and still they remained there—two broken figures who couldn't quite accept that he was gone.
Finally, Saeron swallowed the lump in her throat and lifted her phone with shaking fingers.
"Omma…we can't stay here," she whispered, her voice almost too small to hear.
Mrs. Jung didn't look up.
"Omma, please…"
Saeron called a cab. She had to say the words twice before the dispatcher understood her. She ended the call and closed her eyes, fighting back the tears.
When the car pulled up, the driver hesitated at the sight of them—two soaked, silent women on the curb, looking like they'd lost everything.
Saeron bent to help her mother stand, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Mrs. Jung didn't resist, but she didn't help either, her body limp with grief.
They climbed into the back seat, and as the cab rolled away from the hospital, Saeron pressed her forehead against the rain-speckled glass.
"We'll bring him home," she whispered to no one.
Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and red, and the hospital disappeared behind them, swallowed by the night.