CHAPTER 134: " THE PATIENT IS AWAKE"

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

The room seemed to still.

The faint hum of the ceiling fan overhead was suddenly too loud, filling the space where words should have been.

Logan’s glare, sharp and burning, locked on the doctor’s face, demanding truth—real truth—not a polished reassurance meant to pacify him.

That single word—now—was enough to send dread clawing its way back into his chest.

The doctor hummed thoughtfully, nodding slowly, his brows knitting together in measured calm.

He could feel the weight of Logan’s tension pressing the air thin.

"Your twin brother is stable," he began, his voice carrying the careful precision of someone choosing every word.

"But there is a possibility he may fall into a coma..."

His words trailed, watching as Logan’s face drained of color, lips parting, eyes widening with a sudden, desperate fear.

"Does that mean he will die?" Logan asked hoarsely, completely misinterpreting the doctor’s meaning.

The doctor immediately shook his head, both palms rising slightly in a calming gesture.

"No, no—calm down." His tone was firm, steady, the kind used to ground someone spiraling too fast.

He could see the panic reflected in Logan’s pale features, the tight clench of his jaw, the way his hands balled into fists on his lap.

"A coma is not death," the doctor explained patiently, leaning forward. "It’s different. Your brother will not die."

Logan exhaled shakily, the tension loosening just enough for his brow to unfurl. He tilted his head, voice still tight with confusion. "Then what does that mean?"

"It means," the doctor said with a slow exhale, "that his brain may shut him into a long sleep—a protective slumber. His body will rest, though his mind won’t respond like ours."

Logan swallowed hard, the explanation striking a fragile balance between relief and unease. "So he will not die," he muttered, almost needing the words repeated back to him.

The doctor nodded. "He will not die."

But then his gaze sharpened, curious. "What happened to his head? There was a significant amount of bleeding." His tone wasn’t accusing, only probing—but it was enough to make Logan grimace.

The memory hit him—red staining the ground, the lifeless slump of the man who bore his own face. His stomach tightened.

Should I tell him? he thought, the hesitation burning his chest. Finally, he exhaled, jaw set.

"I don’t know," Logan admitted. "I found him like that... in an alley. I brought him here as fast as I could. Possibly someone hit his car and fled." His expression darkened, anger rippling beneath his words at the thought of someone abandoning him like that.

The doctor studied him carefully, noticing the flare of emotion. "From your expression, you must be very close to him."

Logan stiffened, uncertain how to answer. Was closeness the right word for what he felt? For this stranger who looked exactly like him? Still, under the doctor’s gaze, he finally exhaled and gave a small nod. "Yeah. We are."

Before the silence could stretch further, a sharp knock came at the door.

"Come in," the doctor called, straightening in his chair.

The knob turned slowly, clicking before the door opened. A nurse stepped inside, urgency painted across her face.

"Doctor—the patient is awake," she reported quickly, her voice tinged with surprise.

The doctor’s brows rose high, eyes flicking briefly toward Logan. The tension in the room shifted in an instant.

Just barely thirty minutes after the operation, and the patient was awake?

Something about it didn’t sit right. It was too fast—unnatural. The doctor himself felt a prickle of suspicion coil at the back of his neck.

Patients didn’t simply snap back from such blood loss and trauma this quickly. Something was fishy.

"Come. Let’s go," the doctor said curtly, his tone brisk, professional but edged with urgency.

He snatched his stethoscope from the table and looped it around his neck in one fluid motion, not even bothering to remove his white coat.

His stride was purposeful, every step quick and heavy with unspoken questions.

Logan followed immediately, his long legs carrying him close at the doctor’s heels.

His chest was tight, his hands cold despite the warmth of the corridor they walked through.

Each step felt louder than it should, echoing against the sterile hospital walls.

When they reached the recovery room, Logan’s breath caught.

There—lying on the bed, hooked to IV lines and bandages still fresh—was the man.

The man who looked exactly like him.

Logan froze just inside the doorway, his shoes halting on the tiled floor. His entire body locked up, rooted to the spot.

The resemblance was staggering. Not similar. Not close. But identical—as though a mirror had taken flesh and was breathing in front of him.

The fluorescent light above flickered faintly, casting shadows that deepened the lines of the patient’s face.

Logan’s eyes traced every feature, heart pounding. The same jawline. The same brow. The same shape of nose and lips.

It was like staring at his other self—an alternate version, broken and bloodied, yet living

The doctor leaned over the patient, pressing the cold diaphragm of his stethoscope against the frail chest and listening intently.

The rhythmic thump of the heart filled the silence of the room, steady but weak.

Then, with a small nod, he shifted his hand and carefully lifted one eyelid, checking the pupil’s reaction to the light. His expression softened with faint astonishment.

"He is in good condition," the doctor said finally, his voice tinged with wonder. "But it’s a miracle he woke up this early."

The words made Logan’s shoulders slump as a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding escaped him. A long, shaky sigh—relief, raw and unguarded.

That sigh was what drew the patient’s attention.

The man lying on the bed, pale against the sterile white sheets, turned his head slowly, his movement labored but deliberate.

His eyes—clear but heavy with weakness—drifted until they settled on Logan. He looked at him... and kept looking.

No words. No recognition spoken aloud. Just an unwavering stare that made Logan shift under its weight.

Logan swallowed, suddenly aware of how tight his throat had become.

That stare felt like a mirror reflecting back something he couldn’t explain, and it unsettled him.

"Are you suddenly afraid of meeting your brother?" the doctor asked, his tone almost teasing but threaded with curiosity.

The word brother made Logan snap his gaze toward the man in the white coat, confusion flickering in his eyes.

Brother? The word felt foreign, ill-fitting on his skin.

"You two are strange," the doctor muttered, almost to himself, though loud enough to fill the tension in the room.

His eyes darted between the two men who looked so impossibly alike. Something gnawed at him—an observation he couldn’t quite silence.

"One is worried sick and never once calls him brother... only ’he.’ And the other, waking from unconsciousness, hasn’t spoken a single word of recognition. Odd. Very odd."

Logan’s lips pressed tightly together, and he looked back at the figure on the bed. The young man—his exact likeness, as if a living reflection—studied him with an intensity that was unnerving.

His gaze didn’t waver. Not once. It traveled slowly, almost reverently, from Logan’s dark hair down the lines of his face, his shoulders, lingering as though memorizing.

Then—so subtle, so faint it was almost missed—the corners of the patient’s mouth curved. A small smile, fragile but real, touched his pale lips.

Logan stiffened, caught off guard by the expression.

The young man’s hand, trembling, lifted from the sheets.

Every movement was effortful, his arm quivering with weakness, but he stretched it toward Logan.

His fingers, thin and frail, opened slightly, reaching.

Logan raised a brow, hesitation flickering across his face. Was this... a gesture to come closer? Did this man—this stranger who bore his very image—know him somehow? The question pounded in his skull.

Did he know me? Logan’s thoughts spun, tight and uneasy. He stood there, frozen, trying to read the meaning behind the extended hand.

Before he could decide, the man on the bed broke the silence. His voice came low, strained, like gravel against stone.

"Come..." he muttered, the single word trembling out of him with great effort.

His brow tightened, pain flashing across his features as though even speaking caused his head to ache.

Logan felt something shift deep inside him, something unexplainable. His feet moved almost on their own, drawn by the quiet command.

Compelled by that gaze, by that fragile voice, he stepped forward—closer to the bedside. His chest tightened, every breath shallow as he neared the man who looked like a second version of himself.

The doctor, sensing the moment forming between the two, adjusted his coat, slung the stethoscope back around his neck, and stepped away.

His shoes clicked softly against the floor as he made for the door.

"I’ll leave you both for now," he said gently, as if not to disturb the fragile thread stretching between them.

And then, with a quiet push of the door, he was gone—leaving Logan and the man in the bed facing one another in silence, like two halves of a mirror finally caught in the same frame.