The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor echoed through the sterile hospital room. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a cold glow, illuminating the figure lying motionless on the bed. Hyacinth Flores—Hya—stared at the ceiling, his body heavy with exhaustion, his mind numbed by the weight of overwork. His hands, once eager to dance over piano keys and scribble down melodies, now trembled from fatigue.
His black hair, streaked with soft purple highlights, fell slightly over his tired eyes—a stark reminder of his namesake, the hyacinth flower, and the creativity he once poured into his compositions. Now, even the color felt like a remnant of something distant, something lost.
A gentle knock at the door interrupted the silence. The woman who entered was hard to miss—clad in a pink-inspired blouse paired with a matching pink skirt, white stockings, and pink stilettos. The soft click of her heels against the tiled floor announced her arrival before her warm yet perceptive gaze settled on him. Despite the vibrant shades she wore, her presence exuded a grounding sense of familiarity and trust.
This was Mariah Gaspar—Hya's manager, and more than that, his close friend. Despite their professional relationship, the bond they had built over time was one of trust and understanding.
Mariah's sharp eyes scanned him with concern before she signed, How are you feeling?
Hya sighed and lifted his hands. Like I'm rotting in here.
Mariah arched an eyebrow. Dramatic as always.She pulled up a chair beside his bed. Do you need anything?
Hya hesitated before signing, Something to watch. Anything to escape boredom.
Mariah smirked. I swear, if you make me put on another one of those romance dramas—
Hya rolled his eyes. Just put something on.
With a chuckle, Mariah grabbed the remote and flipped through channels. The soft murmur from the television barely registered in his ears—until a figure on the screen caught his attention.
Dressed in all black, he sat behind his drum set, his sharp gaze fixated on the stage before him. His dark black hair, tousled yet styled effortlessly, framed his face. His half-Japanese, half-Filipino features were sharper now—his pale skin, as white as snow, contrasting against the darkness of his attire. Time had refined his looks, but the cold, unreadable expression he always carried remained unchanged. His eyes, dark and piercing, held the same intensity, the same weight that Hya remembered too well.
The voice of an interviewer cut through the air.
"And here we have Rhapsody, the band that has taken the world by storm!" The interviewer's voice was cheerful, filled with admiration. "Tonight, they perform their latest hit, composed by none other than their own drummer, Yukimura Santos!"
Hya's breath hitched. His fingers twitched instinctively, as if reaching for the remote that wasn't there. He forced himself to turn his head fully, his tired eyes locking onto the screen.
There he was.
Yukimura Santos—his former friend, his past, his regret.
As the music started, Hya felt his chest tighten. It was the same feeling as before—the same unspoken words, the same lingering pain, the same unresolved past that he had spent years trying to forget. His fingers clenched against the hospital blanket, his heartbeat steady yet erratic all at once.
His hand finally found the remote. With a shaky breath, he aimed it at the screen, his thumb hovering over the power button. He didn't want to see this. He didn't want to remember.
Mariah noticed his change in expression and signed, Do you want me to turn it off?
Before Hya could answer, the interview segment resumed.
"Yukimura, before we end, there have been rumors that you're searching for someone," the interviewer pressed. "Is there any truth to that?"
Yukimura, who had remained impassive throughout, finally faltered. A moment of hesitation. Then, his grip on the drumsticks tightened. His jaw clenched. He exhaled. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze—not to the interviewer, not to the audience, but straight at the camera. His dark eyes, sharp as ever, locked onto the lens, as if staring through it, as if staring straight into Hya's soul.
Hya's breath caught in his throat. A tremor ran down his spine, and for a second, it felt as if the world had shrunk to just the two of them. His fingers tightened around the remote, his knuckles turning white.
The years between them, the distance, the silence—it all seemed to vanish in that moment, replaced by an unspoken weight he couldn't shake.
"Yes," Yukimura said, voice low but steady. "There's someone I need to find. Someone I—"
Hya didn't let him finish.
The screen went black.