CHAPTER 132: HE WILL BE ALRIGHT

The sleeves were rolled slightly, revealing forearms strong and precise—arms that spoke of discipline, training, a life far different from Logan’s own scrappy existence.

The man’s shoes, sleek and polished, and the faint scent of expensive cologne that clung stubbornly to the air, made the contrast between their lives painfully clear.

Logan stepped back instinctively, his ragged coat brushing the wet ground. He shivered, not from the cold, but from the surreal reality before him.

This was no ordinary man, no stranger; he was... him. Yet the circumstances screamed otherwise.

The blood, the broken glass, the lifeless slump in the seat—it was as if fate itself had reached into the night and presented him with a cruel, unthinkable reflection.

He whispered, almost to himself, "Who... who are you?" His voice barely carried over the distant hum of the city, fragile and trembling.

There was no answer, only the soft drip of blood onto the wet pavement outside the car, a rhythm as steady and relentless as the years of his own wandering.

Logan’s mind felt like it was splitting in two, caught between disbelief and a morbid curiosity he could not resist.

The wind howled down the alley, lifting strands of his unkempt hair across his face.

He noticed a faint movement—the hand of the man twitched slightly, and a shallow groan escaped his lips. Relief and fear collided violently inside Logan.

He had to help him, yet every step forward felt surreal, as if he were stepping into a dream he might never wake from.

He yanked the car door open with a strength born of desperation, crouching low as he tried to see the face clearly.

The blood-smeared features, though partially obscured, mirrored his own in every tragic detail.

Time seemed to stretch unnaturally, seconds dragging into eternity. Logan’s mind flashed back to the years of solitude, hunger, and harsh streets.

And now, this—this living image of a life he never had, lying wounded and helpless before him.

He reached out, hands shaking violently, and touched the man’s arm, feeling the heat of blood, the faint pulse of life.

"Hang on... you’re going to be okay," Logan whispered, though doubt gnawed at his words. He dragged a rag from his coat, pressing it against the worst of the bleeding.

Every motion was careful, almost reverent, as if touching this man could somehow explain the mystery of their connection.

For a moment, the world beyond the alley seemed to vanish.

Only the two of them existed—the ragged boy who had survived every cruelty of life, and the bloodied figure who looked exactly like him, a mirror that offered both answers and questions.

Logan’s heart ached, a strange mixture of sorrow, wonder, and fear coursing through him. He could not comprehend the coincidence, the tragedy, or the strange twist of fate that had led him here, to this moment.

And yet, as he worked to stabilize him, Logan felt a flicker of something he had not felt in years: purpose.

In helping this man, he might uncover the secrets of his own lost past, the story of abandonment, and the life he had been denied.

The night stretched on, wet and silent, the city indifferent around them, but in that narrow alley, two lives—so similar, yet worlds apart—had collided.

Back to the present.

Logan sat alone on the couch, his eyes unfocused, staring at nothing in particular.

The silence of the apartment pressed down on him, heavy, suffocating. His breath came shallow, his hands loosely resting on his knees, but his mind was far from the dimly lit room.

It had wandered back—back to that night, back to the moment that would carve itself into his memory forever.

His chest tightened as the images replayed.

---

"Ahh... ehm..." Logan had gasped for air, bending forward, his arms straining to support the weight of the young man slumped against him.

The body in his hold was limp, frighteningly cold, and slick with blood. Each breath the man took sounded like a dying ember struggling against the wind.

Logan clenched his jaw, forcing his trembling legs to straighten. His back screamed from the burden, but he refused to let go.

"Stay with me," he muttered hoarsely, as though his words could bind life back into the broken body.

Then—like an echo from the depth of his own mind—a voice whispered.

’Wait. Where are you taking him?’

Logan froze for a heartbeat, his chest heaving. The words felt as though someone had spoken them directly into his skull.

He shook his head violently. "No... no, I can’t just leave him here. I won’t."

The voice faded, and without hesitation, he bent lower, hauling the man fully onto his back in a piggyback hold.

His arms hooked firmly beneath the young man’s knees, his hands slick with blood that stained his worn shirt.

---

The alley around them was dark and damp, reeking of stale beer and garbage.

Faint neon lights flickered somewhere in the distance, but here—where shadows clung to the cracked walls—it was as though the night itself had swallowed them whole.

Logan’s breaths came ragged, puffing white in the cold.

Every step forward was a war.

His legs threatened to buckle, his arms trembled from the effort of keeping the young man steady, but his expression hardened into resolve.

His brows furrowed, his lips pressed thin, and his jaw tightened with grit.

He’s not dying here. Not like this.

---

At last, the alley gave way to the wide stretch of a main road.

The sudden glow of streetlamps painted his sweat-soaked face, highlighting the streaks of grime and exhaustion.

Cars rushed past, honking, engines roaring, their drivers barely sparing a glance at the desperate figure emerging from the shadows.

Logan’s knees nearly gave out, but he forced himself upright, shifting the weight on his back.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, and sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging.

His vision blurred, but his determination only sharpened.

His hand fumbled into his left trouser pocket. Fingers brushed against the thin wad of money he had saved for days.

When he pulled it out, his lips cracked into a smile—tired, trembling, but radiant.

His eyes lit up, almost childlike, as though in this dark moment he had found a single thread of salvation.

He staggered closer to the curb and thrust his hand out desperately. "Taxi! Taxi, please!"

The first car sped past without slowing. His heart lurched. But then—a pair of headlights slowed, tires screeching slightly as a yellow cab pulled over.

Relief surged through him so strong he nearly collapsed.

The driver opened the door in alarm as Logan stumbled forward, his voice frantic, breaking, "Hospital! City Hospital—fast!"

---

The ride was a blur of flashing streetlights, the constant hum of the engine, and Logan’s trembling hand pressed against the young man’s back, whispering again and again: "Hold on. Please, hold on. You’ll make it. Just hold on." His eyes were red, but he refused to let a tear fall. Not yet. Not while this fight wasn’t over.

By the time they arrived at X City Hospital, Logan was half-running, half-stumbling through the sliding glass doors.

"Help! Someone help!" he shouted, his voice echoing desperately through the sterile white corridors.

He laid the young man onto the nearest stretcher with trembling urgency, his palms stained crimson.

His eyes darted wildly, pleading for someone—anyone—to notice.

"Nurses, please—where’s the doctor? He needs to be checked out!" Logan’s voice cracked as though he were begging for his own kin.

His eyes shone with frantic devotion, and his lips quivered as though the weight of the young man’s life pressed directly on his chest.

Within seconds, nurses rushed forward. Their eyes widened at the sight of the man’s blood-soaked clothes and barely moving chest.

"Get him to the operating room!" one barked, and the stretcher was pushed with urgent speed.

A doctor, still snapping on his gloves, met them mid-run. "Calm down," he told Logan quickly, though his own voice carried the sharp edge of tension.

"We’ll do our best."

The words were meant as comfort, but they fell like stones into Logan’s heart. Do our best? His throat tightened, his fists clenched.

He wanted a guarantee—he needed assurance that this stranger’s life wouldn’t slip away tonight.

---

The doors of the operating room swung shut with a heavy thud, leaving Logan alone in the corridor. The sudden silence was deafening.

He couldn’t sit. His legs refused to bend. Instead, he paced the floor, back and forth, each step echoing against the sterile tiles.

His hands fidgeted helplessly, running through his disheveled hair, wiping against his stained shirt, clenching and unclenching as though trying to hold onto hope itself.

His chest heaved. Every few seconds his gaze shot to the door, as though staring hard enough would force it open with good news.

His lips whispered soundless prayers he couldn’t fully form.

’ He will be alright,’ Logan repeated in his mind, the words a mantra. He will be alright. He has to be.

His vision blurred as hot tears welled up, threatening to spill.

He blinked hard, clenching his jaw, but one finally slid down his cheek, carving a path through the dirt and sweat on his face.

He brushed it away harshly, almost angrily.

He wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not until he knew the fight was over.

Yet his heart pounded like a drum, loud, erratic, almost painful.

It thudded in his ears, drowning out the sterile beeps of machines down the hall.

Each passing minute stretched like hours, the air thick with uncertainty.

And still, he waited—eyes locked on the door, body taut with fear, hope, and a determination that refused to let go.

---

Logan’s lips parted as he inhaled shakily, still sitting on the couch in the present.

The memory had pulled him so deeply that he could almost feel the phantom weight on his back again, smell the metallic tang of blood, hear the frantic wheels of the stretcher squealing down the corridor.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his face shadowed by the dim light of the apartment.

His eyes glistened—not with weakness, but with the haunting echo of a night that had never left him.