Part 23
Morning filtered through the blinds, pale and sterile.
The machines beside Adrian clicked softly, counting each fragile breath.
Then—one small movement.
His fingers twitched.
A nurse gasped and hurried for the doctor, but by the time they returned, he was still again, caught somewhere between sleep and waking.
Yet something inside him had shifted.
When the room cleared, sunlight spilled across the table where the sunflowers stood—fresh, impossibly new.
Beneath his hand, paper brushed his skin.
Adrian's lashes fluttered. He opened his eyes to the ceiling's glare, blinking against the light.
His throat was dry, every muscle heavy.
The first thing he saw wasn't the monitor, or the nurses, but the flowers.
Sunflowers.
His heart stumbled once.
He turned his head slowly, pain threading through his temples.
A card rested beside the vase, the words blurred until he focused hard enough to read them.
Justice blooms.
His breath caught.
That wasn't from Mira.
That wasn't from anyone he knew.
A quiet unease crept through his chest—a sense of being watched, of something unfinished lingering in the sterile air.
When the doctor entered to check his vitals, Adrian forced a small smile, but his eyes kept sliding to the window, half-expecting to see a silhouette in the glass.
-------------
Across the city, Ethan hadn't slept for days.
Reporters crowded outside his apartment, shouting questions he couldn't answer.
Every screen he owned flashed with headlines that twisted the knife deeper:
Former idol under investigation for falsified evidence.
Ethan's fall from grace.
He threw his phone across the room.
It landed beside his computer, already looping another message that had appeared overnight:
How does guilt taste, Ethan?
Sweeter than fame?
He pressed his palms to his temples and whispered,
"Who are you?"
The screen flickered once.
Then a reply appeared, almost gentle.
Aura remembers.
Ethan backed away from the desk, pulse racing.
He didn't know if it was a hacker, a fan, or something else entirely.
All he knew was that every secret, every lie, was unraveling—and the one person he'd wanted gone forever had opened his eyes again.
-------------
In the hospital, Adrian stared at the sunflowers until the edges of the world softened.
Somewhere deep in the haze of medicine and memory, a voice echoed faintly—calm, certain, familiar though he couldn't place it.
"You don't have to fight alone anymore."
He wanted to ask who are you, but the words never came.
Only the soft rhythm of his monitor answered, steady and alive.
Outside the window, a figure in white passed through the hospital garden, pausing for just a second to look up at his window before vanishing into the crowd.
Three weeks after waking, Adrian could finally walk without the IV stand.
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and rain; every sound felt louder now—heels on tile, whispers behind doors, cameras outside waiting for a glimpse of him alive.
He'd expected the world to move on while he slept.
Instead, it had grown louder.
His name was everywhere again—hashtags, news feeds, late-night debates.
But this time, the tone had changed.
He wasn't the golden idol anymore.
He was the survivor.
His manager brought him the first tablet he'd been allowed to use.
Messages poured in—fans, agencies, reporters, people begging for a statement.
And scattered between them were the ones that made his blood run cold.
We're so glad you're safe, Adrian.
He can't hurt you anymore.
Justice blooms.
He scrolled back through them, heart hammering.
Dozens. Hundreds.
Different accounts, but the same phrasing.
He whispered, "Aura…" under his breath, though no one had said the name aloud.
-------------
Across town, Ethan's face had disappeared from every billboard.
Brands dropped him overnight; the label erased his photos from their site.
What the public didn't know was how fast it all fell apart.
Every confidential email leaked, every whisper he'd ever made twisted into proof.
The law hadn't caught him—yet—but Aura didn't need courts.
She worked through reputation, fear, silence.
And wherever he turned, Ethan saw sunflowers.
Drawn in dust on his car window.
Printed in anonymous letters.
One even appeared on his apartment door, drawn in chalk.
He tried wiping them away. They always came back.
-------------
Back at the hospital, Adrian was preparing to leave when a new assistant arrived—someone recommended by the label, quiet and efficient.
They introduced themself with a small smile.
"I'm Alex. I'll be helping you with schedules once you're ready."
Her voice was soft, polite, and impossible to place.
Her eyes—calm, observant—lingered on the sunflowers by the window.
Adrian noticed. "You like flowers?"
Alex smiled faintly.
"Only the ones that mean something."
And just before turning away, Adrian thought he saw a glimmer of yellow ink beneath the cuff of her sleeve—an outline of a sunflowers, small and precise, like a tattoo.
He blinked, and it was gone.
-------------
That night, when the city lights dimmed, a new post appeared on social media under an anonymous account that had never existed before:
The truth always finds its stage.
Adrian rises soon.
#JusticeBlooms
Within an hour, it trended worldwide.
Adrian's comeback was already being written for him—by someone he hadn't met, someone he might have already met.