"Which room is Xia Jun in?" a man shouted, sprinting into triage.
"Room 612, private wing," a nurse barked, grabbing a chart. "This way, sir!"
I smelt disinfectant and coffee. I tasted iron on my tongue. My head thudded like someone was hammering a rhythm I knew by memory.
"Xia Jun?" a voice echoed close. I turned my head. Faces blurred. A young man in a dark coat pushed through the crowd, composed but tight at the eyes.
"Is this really happening again?" I whispered to nobody. My throat felt small.
"Ma'am, stay still," a nurse snapped. Hands on my wrist, checking a pulse. The world condensed to the pressure of gloved fingers and the man's coat. The man bent over me with a face I knew too well.
"You can't faint in the middle of triage," he said coldly. "Don't embarrass yourself."
"Who are you?" I managed. My voice sounded like gravel.
He flicked a glance at the nurse. "Chai Yusen. I'm with the family." He said it plainly, like announcing a table reservation.
That name should not exist in my present. It did, and it did not. My memory slid a decade ahead and crashed back. I saw contracts, a basketball court, headlines with his name under LS ownership. I saw my own company sliding, I saw the exact night that started the decay.
I tried to sit up.
"Stay down," the nurse ordered.
"I need to go—" I reached for my phone, for
