CHAPTER 133: "FOR NOW HE IS ALRIGH."

The operation had stretched for more than seven hours, but Logan barely noticed how much time had slipped away.

His body remained rooted to the same spot in front of the operating theater, his back against the cold wall, legs stiff, yet his mind felt suspended in a strange haze—somewhere between a trance and a dream.

0The ticking of the corridor clock, the muffled footsteps of nurses, the distant murmur of relatives waiting for their own loved ones—all of it faded into a blur.

For Logan, there was only one sound that mattered: the pounding of his own heart, hammering inside his chest with every second that passed.

People walked by, sometimes brushing against his shoulder, sometimes slowing down to glance at his tense figure.

A few even bumped into him accidentally, but he never reacted. His eyes never left the glowing red light above the operating room door.

That little bulb held his entire world captive. If it stayed lit, the man’s life hung in the balance.

If it turned off, it meant the operation was finally over—and Logan would receive the verdict that could either crush him or free him.

His hands trembled as he clasped them together, his knuckles pale, lips dry from muttering silent prayers.

He didn’t even realize his shirt was sticking to his back with sweat, or that the hard plastic chair beside him had remained untouched. Logan could not sit. He could only wait.

At last, after what felt like an eternity stretched beyond human measure, the bulb flickered and went dark. The metallic doors opened with a soft hiss.

Logan’s breath caught in his throat.

The head doctor stepped out, peeling off his mask, his expression carefully composed but softened by something almost like relief.

Logan’s legs moved on instinct, carrying him forward before the man could even adjust his cap.

"Doctor, please—" Logan’s voice cracked with urgency.

He stopped only a foot away, eyes wide and pleading, the anticipation burning in them almost unbearable. "Tell me he’s alright."

The words tumbled out quickly, raw and desperate, as though Logan had been holding them back for hours.

His chest rose and fell sharply, his entire body leaning forward as if the answer alone could decide whether he would collapse or stand tall again.

The doctor blinked at him, caught for a moment by the intensity of the young man’s gaze.

His brows lifted slightly in surprise, and then his eyes softened.

He studied Logan’s face—those sharp lines of worry, the tear-stained cheeks, the striking resemblance to the patient he had just fought to keep alive.

Same jawline. Same set of the brow. The likeness was uncanny.

The doctor let out a quiet hum, a thoughtful sound as his lips curved into the faintest smile.

"There’s no doubt," he murmured almost to himself, before meeting.

But what made the doctor grimace was not just the similarity of their faces—it was the stark difference in their clothing.

The one on the operating table had been dressed in an expensive tailored suit, evidence of wealth, power, or at least a high position in life.

Meanwhile, the young man now standing before him was clad in worn-out trousers and a shirt that had clearly seen better days.

The contrast was jarring. His brow arched slightly in silent curiosity, yet he quickly schooled his expression.

Clothes didn’t matter here.

What mattered was the uncanny resemblance—the undeniable mirror of features. No doubt, they were twins.

"Follow me, please," the doctor said gently, his voice calm but carrying the kind of authority that made people instinctively obey.

He turned and began walking down the quiet corridor, his polished shoes clicking against the cold tiled floor.

Logan’s chest tightened as he trailed after him, his steps quick and uneven.

Every nerve in his body screamed for answers, but he forced himself to stay silent. His mind was a storm, whirling with questions he dared not voice yet.

Twins? Could it be true? Is he the one I’ve been searching for all these years? The thought both frightened and thrilled him, but fear gnawed harder.

What if the operation failed? What if I lose him before I even have the chance to know him?

SLAM.

The sudden sound of a nearby office door shutting startled Logan out of his thoughts.

His heart jumped, thudding like a drum in his ears, before settling into a painful rhythm. He swallowed hard, his throat dry as sand.

The doctor, unfazed, continued on and pushed open the door to his own office.

Warm light spilled into the hallway, contrasting with the sterile brightness outside. He gestured toward the room.

"Please, have a seat," he said, his tone steady, as though he had given the same invitation countless times to countless anxious relatives.

He motioned toward a cushioned chair across from his desk.

Logan stepped inside, his palms clammy, and hesitated. His dark eyes darted between the chair and the doctor’s unreadable expression.

The faint smell of antiseptic lingered in the room, mixed with a faint trace of coffee that had gone cold on the desk.

He lowered himself into the chair but sat on the edge, his back rigid, his hands clasped so tightly together his knuckles turned white.

His restless gaze stayed fixed on the doctor’s face, trying to read something—anything—from the man’s expression.

The doctor sat down slowly, folding his hands on the desk, and for a moment, simply observed Logan. The resemblance is uncanny... the same eyes, the same jawline.

Yet the desperation in this one’s face is different—raw, unrefined. He took in the trembling lips, the way Logan’s chest rose and fell rapidly.

This young man is terrified. He needs reassurance. But I must be careful with my words.

Logan licked his lips, his voice breaking the silence, hoarse with urgency.

"Doctor... please... don’t make me wait any longer. Tell me—tell me he’s alright."

His heart pounded violently, his breath shallow, as if every second of silence stretched into eternity.

The doctor exhaled slowly, his eyes softening, and leaned forward just slightly.

Logan stood there stiffly, his arms crossed but his eyes refusing to leave the doctor.

The young man’s gaze was sharp, almost burning holes into the calm figure seated across the desk.

He had the look of someone who wanted answers immediately, without any professional courtesy or unnecessary delay.

But the doctor, with his collected demeanor, acted as though the entire world had paused for him alone—that time itself would wait for him to speak at his own pace.

That infuriating calmness made Logan’s scowl deepen.

His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened, and his body leaned forward slightly as though daring the doctor to waste another second.

But the man simply smiled faintly, almost amused at the stormy expression being thrown his way.

To the doctor, Logan’s reaction was nothing unusual. He had seen this before—family members wearing impatience as armor to cover their fear.

It wasn’t anger he saw in the young man’s eyes; it was worry, raw and desperate, though buried under that scolding glare.

He could see, very clearly, that Logan cared for the patient in a way that words hadn’t yet admitted.

"Please, have a seat," the doctor said gently, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

His tone carried that subtle weight of insistence, though he himself remained seated comfortably, leaning back with professional ease.

But Logan didn’t move. His feet were rooted to the ground, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm that betrayed the storm within him.

Something about the doctor’s calmness, the almost too-patient invitation to sit, clawed at his nerves. He knew this behavior—it wasn’t kindness.

No. He had seen enough in his life to recognize it. When a doctor tried to soften the edge, when they carefully arranged the environment to make you comfortable before speaking... it usually meant something was wrong.

The realization made his stomach twist.

"I’m capable of handling whatever you want to say," Logan snapped, though his voice cracked at the edges with something closer to fear. "So just spill the beans, doctor. Is my—"

He froze.

The word "brother" had almost slipped past his lips, and the recognition of it hit him like a blow. His throat tightened, his heart stumbled in its beat.

Brother. How easily that word had come. And yet—how impossible it was. He clenched his fists at his sides, shaking his head as if physically rejecting the thought.

No. No, he couldn’t call him that. There was no way, no proof, only a shadow of resemblance in their faces that haunted him when he dared to look too long.

Rephrasing quickly, forcing himself to speak with a steadiness he didn’t feel, Logan said, "Please... tell me, is he alright?" His voice carried impatience now, but beneath it was an unmistakable tremor—fear barely caged.

The doctor sighed softly, seeing through the act.

He could almost feel the storm of emotions in the young man before him, but he chose not to call him out.

Instead, he folded his hands neatly on the desk and offered the first piece of news.

"Don’t worry. Your brother—" he corrected himself quickly, "—the young man you brought in, is out of danger."

Logan’s chest heaved as he released the breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

Relief crashed through him so forcefully his knees felt weak.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face as if to ground himself.

"Are you sure, doctor?" he asked quickly, almost too quickly. It was a redundant question, he knew.

The man had just said it, yet Logan’s lips moved of their own accord, needing the reassurance, needing to hear it again.

"Yes," the doctor replied firmly, his voice calm but steady. "He is out of danger." Then, leaning slightly forward, he added, "But... you have to sit, so I can tell you the rest."

The subtle shift in tone snapped Logan’s attention back like a whip. His brows furrowed, suspicion tightening his features.

Still, he obeyed, almost against his own will. In the blink of an eye he dropped into the chair, his body leaning forward with expectation.

His eyes didn’t waver, sharp and intent, as though he could force the truth out of the man if he stared hard enough.

The doctor allowed himself a small breath before continuing. His words came measured, careful.

"For now he is alright now." he began.

Logan’s sharp senses caught it instantly. His head jerked slightly, and one brow rose with razor-like precision.

" For NOW?" Logan repeated, his tone dark, pressing the word like a blade. "What do you mean by For NOW?"

The room seemed to still. Logan’s glare pierced through, demanding the truth, refusing to be soothed with vague reassurance.

That single word—"now"—was all it took for dread to claw back into his chest.