Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most

Chapter 200: Without A Goodbye...

The morning light glows in the room, soft and hesitant, slipping through the heavy curtains drawn across the glass wall. The fabric is thick, expensive—the kind meant to block out the world entirely—but even it cannot keep the sun out completely. Slivers of gold find their way through the gaps, painting the dim space in shifting shades of amber and honey. Dust motes drift lazily in the narrow beams, suspended like tiny stars caught between sleep and waking.

I shift on the couch, my body protesting with a dull, familiar ache settling deep into my muscles. The cushions are softer than they look, but still—a couch is a couch, and my body knows it.

My eyes open slowly. I blink against the soft light and stare up at the white, polished ceiling above me. There’s a faint seam near the corner, barely visible unless you’re looking for something to focus on.

I’ve stared at it before.

In other rooms.

In other hospitals.

In other moments of waiting.

The couch is comfortable enough, but my body still hurts.

I stretch carefully, my arms reaching overhead, my spine cracking in quiet protest. Then I turn my head toward the bed.

I go still.

The bed is empty.

The sheets are rumpled, tangled in a way that speaks of restless sleep. The pillow still bears the faint imprint of a head—a shadow of where someone lay.

But no one is there now.

No rise and fall of breath.

No warmth beneath the covers.

Just emptiness.

I sit up slowly, my eyes scanning the room. The IV stand has been moved aside, tucked neatly against the wall, its wheels locked, the tubes coiled with quiet precision. The machines that beeped through the night are dark now, their screens blank, their steady hum replaced by something heavier.

No one.

Maybe he’s in the bathroom.

I stand and walk to the heavy curtains, pulling them aside in one swift motion.

Light floods the room—golden and warm, sudden, almost harsh after the dimness. The city sprawls below, bright in the morning sun, cars moving like distant insects along streets I don’t know. The world is awake, indifferent, moving on without pause.

But behind me, the room is still.

I turn and walk to the bathroom. My footsteps are soft against the polished floor. I raise my hand and knock.

"Moon? Are you okay?"

Silence.

I wait.

Nothing.

I twist the handle. The door swings open.

Empty.

The bathroom is spotless—as if no one has used it at all. The towels are folded with precise care, their edges perfectly aligned. The sink is dry, not a single droplet clinging to the faucet. The mirror reflects my own face back at me—pale, confused.

No sign that anyone was here.

I walk back to the couch and pick up my phone. My fingers find his contact—Moon, with the little crescent emoji he added himself months ago, when he first saved his name.

I press call.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

"The number you have dialed is currently unavailable."

I stare at the screen. The words blur for a second... then sharpen again.

What...?

Knock. Knock.

The door opens.

A nurse steps in, holding a tray, a soft, professional smile on her lips. She’s young, with kind eyes and steady hands—the same one who changed his cannula last night, who warned him to be careful.

"Good morning, Mr. Kael."

I nod, barely looking at her.

She moves to the bedside table and begins gathering the IV supplies—the empty bags, the coiled tubes, the syringes laid out in neat rows on a sterile cloth. Her movements are efficient, practiced—the kind that comes from doing this a thousand times.

"Where is Mr. Moon?" I ask.

She glances at me, then back at her work. Her hands don’t pause.

"Mr. Moon discharged himself last night." She folds the empty bags and places them on her tray. "Sometime after midnight."

My eyes widen. My expression shifts—confusion, disbelief, something heavier settling into my chest like a cold stone.

"Discharged?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "He was still on IV. He wasn’t supposed to—"

She shakes her head gently, her expression apologetic.

"He signed the papers himself... against medical advice."

A brief pause.

"There was nothing we could do to stop him."

She gathers the last of the supplies onto her tray and bows lightly, then walks out, her footsteps soft against the floor.

The door closes behind her with a quiet click.

I stand there, frozen, staring at the space where she was.

He left.

Without telling me.

While I was sleeping on that couch—just a few feet away.

The door opens again.

I don’t turn.

"Good morning."

Deniz’s voice. Warm. Familiar. It wraps around me like a blanket I didn’t know I needed.

I feel his presence before I see him—the soft rustle of fabric, the faint scent of roses that always lingers around him, the quiet warmth that follows wherever he goes.

He steps beside me, holding a small paper bag and a bouquet of pink roses. Their petals are soft, blushing, still dotted with water droplets.

His smile is bright, easy—the kind that usually makes me forget everything else.

He sets the flowers on the bedside table, arranging them with care, then places the bag beside them.

Then he turns and wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a soft, familiar hug.

"I missed you," he whispers against my ear.

I stand still in his arms. My hands don’t rise to hold him back. My body doesn’t lean into his warmth.

I just stand there, frozen—staring at the empty bed.

He pulls back slightly, searching my face. His smile falters, fading like light behind clouds.

"Zyren?" His brow furrows. "What happened?"

His gaze shifts—to the empty bed, the dark machines, the silence where there should be sound, presence, life.

"Where’s Mr. Moon?"

I meet his eyes. Dark. Concerned. Waiting.

"I don’t know."

His brow tightens. "What do you mean, you don’t know?"

"When I woke up, he wasn’t there." I pause, the words feeling strange in my mouth. "I called him."

I stop.

"What did it say?"

I look down at my hands. "It’s not available."

Deniz blinks. His expression shifts—confusion, concern, something deeper flickering beneath the surface.

"Did you ask the nurse?"

"She said he discharged himself last night."

A pause. "While I was sleeping."

He stares at me, processing, his lips parted slightly.

"Why would he do that?"

I look down at my hands again. My voice comes out weak, slow—like I’m pulling each word from somewhere deep and reluctant.

"I don’t know."

But even as I say it, his words echo in my mind, circling like birds I can’t catch, can’t quiet.

Soon I’m leaving this country. I won’t come back.

Did he really leave?

This time?

For real?

Deniz reaches for my hand, his fingers warm around mine, squeezing gently. But I barely feel it.

I’m still staring at the empty bed. At the pillow where his head lay. At the ghost of a man who vanished into the night without a word—without a goodbye.

And I don’t know why it feels like something just... closed.

Like something old—something buried deep—has been pulled open again.

The same way my mother left me.

Without a goodbye.