May 9th, 2019

Osaka Detention Center, 6:00 A.M 

The clang of the cell door echoed like a verdict. Petrus sat on the narrow cot, staring at the scuffed concrete floor. His hands trembled—not only from alcohol withdrawal this time, but also from the cold realization that he was trapped. Not just behind bars, but also within the wreckage of his own making.

When the officers came to question him, he straightened his shirt, trying to feign control. "Look," he said, his voice hoarse, "I've been thinking. If I cooperate, there's a chance I can get a lighter sentence, right?"

The older officer, the one with the tired eyes, sighed. "That's not how it works," he said, flipping through the paperwork. "You can talk if you want, but bargaining won't change what you did. Sentence reductions are up to the judges. And you'll have your turn in court soon enough."

Petrus' lips twisted into something between a sneer and a plea. "But come on, I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt. It was supposed to be a warning, that's all."

The younger officer leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Tell that to the one still fighting for his life."

The words hit Petrus like a slap. He looked down again, the room spinning. The stench of disinfectant and damp concrete filled his lungs. In the corner of his mind, he replayed the croquette shop incident  again—his own hands pushing Johan back, the shock in Clara's eyes—and he wished, for a moment, that he could erase everything. But regret was a luxury that arrived too late.

The officers left, the sound of their footsteps fading down the hall. Petrus pressed his palms against his face, muffling a groan. Somewhere far beyond these walls, the world kept moving, but his name was being inked into reports, charges, and headlines.

He thought of the river, the neon lights, and the man who had found him—smiling, calm, watchful. He hadn't even gotten the stranger's name.

***

Kindai University Hospital, 8:05 A.M 

The hospital corridor was unusually quiet that morning, save for the soft squeak of sneakers. Nardho and Nardhia walked hand in hand beside Kiran, their steps hesitant but determined. Each twin carried a small drawing—Nardho held his drawing of Johan smiling next to a whale while Nardhia held her drawing of Johan hugging an octopus.

Kenta looked up as they entered, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion but warm with relief. "You came," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"Of course," Nardhia said, placing her drawing on the bedside table. "Johan needs to see this when he wakes up."

Nardho climbed onto Kenta's lap, but his gaze was fixed on the faint rise and fall of Johan's chest. "He's been sleeping a really long time," he murmured.

Kenta nodded, gripping Johan's hand gently. "Yes... but the doctor said that's okay. His body needs time."

The twins exchanged a look of before Nardhia leaned closer to Johan. "You don't have to hurry, but when you wake up we should go eat pudding and donuts."

For a moment, nothing moved. Then, almost imperceptible, Johan's fingers weakly squeezed Kenta's again.

Kenta froze, tears welling in his eyes. 

Chandresh, standing quietly, whispered, "He heard Nardhia."

The twins gasped softly, hands over their mouths. Kenta pressed Johan's hand to his cheek. "See? He's listening."

The afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, casting gentle stripes of light across Johan's face. The fingers twitching wasn't a miracle—not yet—but it was something. A promise that Johan was still trying.

***

June 19th, 2019

Osaka District Court

The courtroom smelled faintly of varnished wood and old paper. A soft hum filled the air as reporters adjusted their recorders, lawyers whispered, and the judge's gavel struck once for order.

Petrus sat stiffly in the defendant's seat, dressed in a plain prison uniform. His wrists were uncuffed only moments ago, faint red marks still ringed them. He glanced around the room—at the prosecutors and the journalists—but avoided eye contact with Clara, who sat beside her attorney, her face pale but steady, hands clasped in her lap.

When the judge signaled for him to speak, Petrus cleared his throat and began, his voice trembling at first but growing bolder with every word.

"Your Honors, I admit that things got out of hand that day," he said, forcing a nervous laugh. "But I wasn't trying to hurt anyone. I was only trying to talk to Clara, to make her understand that I still care for our family. She's been irresponsible, letting the children spend time around that turbaned man. Kiran Dhillon. A stranger. How could I, as their father, not be concerned?"

Murmurs rippled through the courtroom. Clara didn't move, but her attorney rose smoothly, her tone razor-sharp.

"With the court's permission," the attorney said, holding up a set of documents, "we'd like to submit photographic evidence and testimonies from multiple witnesses—the shopkeeper, two customers, and the emergency responders—confirming that the defendant attacked both Clara and Johan without provocation. Furthermore, police reports indicate that the defendant was intoxicated, and his breath alcohol content exceeded the legal limit by over threefold."

The judge leaned forward. "Mr. Sitohang, do you deny this?"

Petrus' jaw clenched. "I— I was under a lot of stress. Clara's been trying to take my children from me—"

Another gavel strike cut him off. "That will be enough."

The prosecutor stood next, his tone calm but firm. "Your Honors, we would also like to remind the court that the defendant had a pending domestic violence charge prior to this incident, and was scheduled to attend a divorce proceeding. Instead, he chose to flee and commit an assault resulting in severe bodily harm. His victim remains in a coma to this day."

At that, the courtroom fell utterly silent. Clara's eyes filled with tears she refused to let fall. Kenta, seated quietly in the back row, squeezed Chandresh's hand, his knuckles white.

Petrus shifted in his seat, the mask of composure cracking. "That's not fair," he muttered. "I didn't mean to— it was just bad luck, okay? I was drunk, and he—he provoked me—"

"Enough," said the judge, her voice final. "Your intentions are irrelevant to the suffering you caused."

She conferred briefly with the other judges, the rustle of robes and papers the only sound. When she spoke again, her tone carried the weight of finality.

"Mr. Petrus Sitohang, the court finds you guilty on all counts: assault causing grievous bodily harm, violation of a restraining order, and evasion of judicial summons. You will serve a sentence of fifteen years in prison—triple the original term we were considering—without eligibility for early release."

The gavel came down once more. The sound was like thunder.

Petrus' mouth opened, but no words came. All he could see was Clara—her cold, unbroken gaze, but also the way she made the religious sign of the cross over her forehead and shoulders—and it dawned on him that he had lost.

As guards approached to escort him out, Petrus muttered under his breath, "Fifteen years... for one mistake."

But as he was led away, even he knew it wasn't one mistake. It was his own cruelty finally backfiring.

***

The courthouse door opened with a soft creak.

The trial was over. The air outside was crisp and still, the kind of spring breeze that smelled faintly of sakura.

Mahira clapped when she saw Clara walking down the staircase. "You did it," she said softly. "You pressed the law enforcers to have Petrus be put on trial and you won."

Clara managed a nod. "I only wish Johan didn't have to pay such a high price for it." Her voice cracked, but this time she didn't try to hide it.

Kenta and Chandresh approached with canned drinks they'd picked up from a vending machine.

Kenta handed one to Clara and said gently, "Johan would be proud of you. You kept your word. You protected Nardho and Nardhia, just like he wanted."

Clara looked at Kenta —studying the dark circles under his eyes and the faint tremor in his hands—and realized he hadn't really slept since Johan fell into a coma. Still, there was something softer in his face now, as if hope had finally cracked the shell of fear that had surrounded them all.

Chandresh glanced toward the sky. "We should go back to the hospital," he said. "Let's tell Johan the good news."

***

The hospital corridors were quiet that afternoon, with the soft shuffle of nurses' shoes as the only constant sound. Johan's room was the same as always—sunlight filtering through pale curtains, a vase of chrysanthemums on the bedside table, Kenta's amulet for good luck coiled neatly on one of the flowers' stems.

Kenta sat by the bed, as he had every day, one hand around Johan's motionless fingers. Chandresh leaned against the wall, fiddling with his steel bracelet and murmuring a prayer under his breath. Clara lingered by the door, watching them with the gentle patience of someone who finally believed healing might be possible.

The monitor beeped steadily. Then, very suddenly, the rhythm changed.

Johan's fingers twitched. Not like before. Not the vague reflex that the doctor had warned them about. This time, his grip on Kenta's hand felt stronger.

Johan's eyelids fluttered.

When his eyes opened, the light in them was dim but unmistakably his. He blinked, dazed, scanning the room—the blur of faces, the white ceiling, the familiar warmth pressed against his palm. His gaze landed on Kenta and stayed there.

Kenta only managed to say the first half of "Good morning" before his words got quickly cut off by his own sobbing. "You scared us so badly, you had no idea," his voice trembled.

Chandresh pressed a hand over his mouth, tears pooling in his eyes. Clara covered her face, shoulders shaking with quiet relief.

Johan's lips moved, although no sound came out. But he didn't need to speak. His trying to smile was enough for everyone. He was back.

A soft knock on the door broke the hush.

Dr. Takano, the lead doctor handling Johan's case, entered with her clipboard pressed to her chest, her expression warm but cautious. "I heard the commotion," she said gently. "And I had a feeling something wonderful just happened."

Clara wiped her tears. "Johan opened his eyes, doctor. He—he recognized us."

"That's incredible," Dr. Takano replied, stepping closer to check the attached electroencephalogram monitor. "His brain waves and vitals are improving too. He's showing stable signs of consciousness."

She paused, lowering her tone. "However, I need to remind everyone—this will be a long road. Johan's body has been immobile for over three weeks. That kind of inactivity causes the muscles to atrophy. Even simple movements will feel like lifting mountains for a while."

Kenta looked up. "So he'll need physical therapy?"

"Yes," Dr. Takano nodded. "A combination of physical and occupational therapy. We'll start gently—range-of-motion exercises, posture retraining, speech therapy if needed. The first few weeks will be frustrating. He might not be able to sit up without help at first, and walking will take time."

Chandresh swallowed hard. "How long are we talking about?"

"Every case is different," she said. "But given his age, resilience, and general health, I'd say several months before he regains full strength—if he stays consistent with rehab and has emotional support."

Clara exhaled shakily. "He has that. We'll make sure he can lean on us."

The doctor smiled softly. "That's the best medicine there is."

When she left, Chandresh reached over and straightened the blanket around Johan's arm. "He's fought this far," he murmured. "He'll keep fighting."

***

The neurology ward had quieted down for the night. Most of the visitors had gone home. Johan had been slipping in and out of light sleep, but now he could breathe on his own and no longer needed a ventilator and intubation.

Kenta sat on the sofa by the window, staring at the faint city lights outside while sipping on lukewarm tea. Chandresh leaned against the wall, arms folded, his expression thoughtful.

"He'll hate this part," Chandresh finally said, breaking the silence. "The physical rehabilitation. I can already hear him saying, 'Don't treat me like I'm fragile.'"

Kenta gave a small, tired laugh. "That sounds exactly like him. But he'll need us to motivate him. Even if he pretends he doesn't need motivators."

Chandresh nodded. "Yeah. We'll have to get creative. He's the kind who doesn't want pity, but he thrives on purpose. Maybe if we frame the rehab like it's a project instead of recovery—something he can measure progress on—he won't feel like we're motivating him just to be nice. He needs more than platitudes."

Kenta thought for a moment, his thumb tracing the rim of his tea cup. "Maybe a scrapbook-style rehabilitation journal? We could write down every little milestone. The first time he sits up on his own. The first time he walks across the room. Even if he rolls his eyes at us."

"Exactly," Chandresh said with a grin. "We'll celebrate each win quietly. No confetti, no speeches. Just quiet acknowledgment. Like how we used to check each other's lab data and say, 'You did good work today.'"

Kenta nodded, a gentle smile curving his lips. "And when he can't see the progress, we'll remind him. Because he'll have days when he feels like he's not getting anywhere."

Chandresh looked at him. Kenta's exhaustion was visible, but so was a kind of fierce devotion. "You know," Chandresh said softly, "you're a lot stronger than you think."

Kenta blinked, flustered. "I'm not. I just... I can't imagine my life without him."

"Neither can I," Chandresh replied, settling into the chair beside him. 

For a long while, they both sat in silence, watching Johan sleep. The monitor's steady beeping felt almost like a heartbeat for them, a promise of endurance and love that survived the worst of hurricanes.