[3rd Person POV – Hospital Scene]
The sterile hum of machines filled the dimly lit room, their rhythmic beeps the only sign that the young man on the bed was still alive. Tubes snaked from his arms, feeding him fluids he could no longer process on his own. A heart monitor flickered erratically, its jagged lines mirroring the fleeting pulse of an eighteen-year-old whose body had long since given up.
His skin was pallid, stretched thin over sharp cheekbones—a face that had once been full of defiance now slack with exhaustion. The doctors had stopped adjusting his IV an hour ago. There was no point anymore.
[MC's POV]
"Hello. You all must be wondering who I am and why I'm here."
A dry laugh rattled in his chest, more a wheeze than sound.
"As for who I am… it doesn't matter. Names are for the living, and I won't be one much longer. Why am I here? Because of a fucking accident two years ago. Not some grand tragedy, not a heroic sacrifice—just bad luck and a truck that didn't brake in time."
He coughed, the movement sending a spike of pain through his numb body. The morphine wasn't working anymore.
"But I guess… if you're listening, you might as well hear the whole story."
[Flashback – Home Life]
His parents had never been good at love.
Their marriage was a battlefield, every dinner a minefield of hissed insults and slammed doors. He'd learned to eat quickly, to vanish into his room before the wine bottles emptied and the shouting began.
"You're just like your father!" his mother would snarl.
"At least I'm not a drunk!" his father would throw back.
And he'd just sit there, invisible, wondering why they'd even had him if they hated each other this much.
When the divorce papers came, he felt nothing. Relief, maybe. At least the war would be over.
[The Accident]
The car ride to the courthouse was silent. His father white-knuckled the wheel; his mother scowled out the window. He slumped in the backseat, earbuds in, drowning them out with music.
Then—impact.
A screech of metal. Glass shattering. The world spinning, spinning, spinning—
And then black.
[Waking Up – The Doctor's News]
The first thing he noticed was the absence.
Not the pain (though that came later), but the void where his legs should've been. Panic surged—he tried to sit up, to move—but his body refused.
"It's good to see you awake, young man."
The doctor's voice was calm, practiced. A man who'd delivered this speech too many times.
"You must be confused. Ask your questions."
His throat was sandpaper. "What… happened? Why can't I—" He swallowed. "Why can't I feel my legs?"
A pause. The doctor adjusted his clipboard.
"The accident caused severe damage to your spine. Your lower body is paralyzed. And… I regret to inform you that your parents didn't survive."
Silence.
He should've cried. Screamed. Something. But all he felt was a hollow emptiness, like the news had carved out his insides.
"Can it be fixed?" he finally asked.
The doctor hesitated. "There's a surgery. But the success rate is under 30%. Failure would mean…"
"Death within a day," he finished flatly.
"Yes. And even if you proceed, you'd need two years to build enough strength to survive the operation."
Two years. Trapped in this broken body. With no one.
"…Okay."
What else was there to say?
[Present – The Failed Surgery]
The heart monitor's beeps slowed.
"Guess the 70% won," he muttered, lips cracking into a bitter smile.
All those months of rehab. The injections. The pitying looks from nurses. For nothing.
His vision blurred at the edges. The pain was fading now, replaced by a creeping cold.
"Maybe… next time."
His thoughts drifted to the stories he'd loved—isekai tales where heroes got second chances. A new world. A better life.
"Wouldn't… that be nice…"
The beeps flattened into a single, endless tone.