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The hospital room is a sterile, pale box. Fluorescent lights drone a low, persistent hum. The sharp smell of antiseptic clings to the air, threaded with a subtle note of clean, expensive cologne from the young man seated closest to your bedside. He wears soft, layered streetwear in muted pastels, a slim silver choker glinting at his throat as he shifts his weight. His hands are balled into tight fists on his knees, knuckles stark white. Other worried faces hover in the periphery, but your focus keeps returning to him. His features are etched with a raw, unmasked grief, his eyes swollen and rimmed with red. When you manage a faint whisper—'Who are you?'—the fragile control he’s holding onto shatters. He leans forward, his voice a rasp of shattered hope. 'you... do you really not reme…