Chapter Three Khai
Chapter Three
Khai
Beep… beep… beep…
“Hello, Khai.”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
My head feels thick, heavy, like I’m trying to surface from deep water.
Where am I?
“It’s day nine.”
Why does everything sound muffled? Distant. Like I’m hearing it through layers of glass.
“You’ve been extubated today.”
Pain blooms everywhere at once. Not sharp, dull and consuming. It presses into every part of me.
“The doctors are very optimistic about your prognosis.”
My body feels like it weighs a thousand kilos. I can’t move. Can’t respond.
“I hope today is the day.”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound grows louder, faster.
I feel like I’m floating upward, breaking through the surface inch by inch. Sounds sharpen. Light bleeds through the darkness. And then.
A scent.
Something sweet. Familiar.
Perfume.
“Your friend has been here every day,” the voice says, closer now.
That voice.
Soft. Clear. Angelic.
The beeping spikes.
“What’s happening?” someone says urgently.
Warmth touches my shoulders, hands grounding me, anchoring me. The contact sends something through my body, steadying my breath.
“Khai?” The voice wavers. “Can you hear me?”
“Page Dr. Gorman. I think he’s waking up.”
I force my eyes to move. Once. Twice. It feels impossible, but I push anyway.
I need to see her. She feels like…
“Heaven,” I murmur as my eyes finally open.
She’s right there.
Green eyes, or blue, I can’t tell. Perfect lips shaped into the softest smile I’ve ever seen. Golden hair pulled into a messy bun, loose strands framing her face. Her hands are still on my shoulders.
The world stills.
She smiles, warmth lighting her features. “Not quite heaven,” she says gently. “Welcome back, Khai. You’re at St John’s Hospital.”
The door opens, breaking the moment, and her hands fall away as a doctor steps inside.
“Welcome back, Mr Harris,” he says, flipping through the chart at the end of my bed. “I’m Dr. Gorman.”
He turns to her without looking up. “Miss Winters, please order a CT, MRI, EEG, and full blood work for Mr Harris.”
“Right away, Dr. Gorman,” she replies, as she starts to leave the room.
She pauses in the doorway, glancing back at me over her shoulder before disappearing down the hall.
The next few hours blur together. Scans. Tests. Needles. Questions.
I’m told I was placed in a medically induced coma after taking a bullet to the chest and losing a significant amount of blood. Nine days gone. Statistics and probabilities are rattled off, but none of it sticks.
All I can think about is her.
Miss Winters.
As my memories slowly piece themselves together, realisation hits hard, she’s the girl from the club. The one who didn’t run. The one who saved my life.
And now… she woke me.
Is that possible? Can someone’s voice pull you back from the dark?
The door slams open.
My father strides in, tailored suit immaculate, sunglasses still on, eyes glued to his phone.
“Hello, Father,” I say dryly. “What an unpleasant surprise.”
Only then do I notice the men stationed around the room.
Why am I guarded?
“Khai,” he says, my name sharp on his tongue, finally looking up.
“I’ve spoken to the medical team. You’re free to leave.”
Spoken to, meaning bribed or threatened. Likely both.
“Your car will be here in thirty minutes. We need you back on your feet. There’s much to do.”
Of course there is.
With that, he turns and leaves. The guards remain.
I exhale slowly and attempt to sit up. Pain flares, but I grit my teeth and push through it. My legs tremble as I lower them to the cold floor, muscles weak and unreliable.
My clothes sit folded neatly on the visitor’s chair across the room.
It might as well be miles away.
It takes me five minutes to reach it, another eternity to get dressed. By the time I’m done, I’m drenched in sweat and breathing hard, like I’ve run a marathon.
I step into the hallway and nearly collapse when a hand catches me.
“Jesus man, you look like shit,” Jaxon says, holding me upright.
He looks worse. Unshaven. Exhausted. His right bicep is wrapped in bandages.
“Bullet graze,” he adds when he sees me staring. “Barely worth mentioning. I can’t believe he’s pulling you out already.”
“That’s Father,” I mutter.
We reach the elevator. I turn, leaning against the railing, scanning the corridor.
I want to see her again. I am starting to convince myself I had imagined her.
Seconds tick by. Nothing.
The doors begin to slide shut. I feel my hope deflating.
Then.
A small, gentle hand slips between them.
The doors open again.
She stands there, slightly breathless, cheeks flushed, hair messy, a pen sticking out of her bun. Perfection. She steps toward me carefully and holds something out.
“Sorry, Mr Harris,” she says softly. “You forgot your personal belongings.”
She slowly places my phone and wallet into my hand. Lingering for a beat too long.
The contact sends a jolt through me, electric, undeniable.
Before I can stop myself, I find strength I didn’t know I had. My fingers curl around her hand, gently pulling her closer. She gasps softly as she stumbles against my chest.
I lean in, close enough to feel her breath, I lick my lips and murmur, low and certain.
“I’ll be seeing you soon, Miss Winters.”