Ichigaya, Shinjuku-ku → October 28th, 2022
“Pride makes a man unshakable. Trust gives him somewhere to lean.”
Miyu drove with a steady, cautious hand. Though she felt the urge to floor the accelerator, she avoided the main highways and the glare of the neon-lit expressways. Instead, she navigated the narrow, shadowed side streets of Shinjuku, using the darkness as a shield to protect Shunsuke from the flickering strobes of the city lights.
Beside her, Shunsuke was hauntingly silent, but his body was vibrating with a fine, uncontrollable tremor from the sheer intensity of the pain.
“Is your phone connected to the car’s Bluetooth?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
A strained, muffled “Mhmm” was the only answer he could muster.
“I’m calling the hospital in advance,” she said, her fingers moving quickly over the dashboard display. “It will help them prepare. We’ll get you in faster.”
Shunsuke gave a sharp, jerky nod. Miyu dialed the emergency department at Keio University Hospital. “We’re heading to Keio,” she added. “It’s the closest one.”
Shunsuke let out a low, pained groan that sounded almost like a protest. “Keio? Really?” he rasped. A whimper escaped him as the car hit a small bump. “The Todai student council president… ending up in the Keio ER…”
Miyu couldn’t help the small, sad smile that tugged at her lips despite her fear. “I know, I know. We’re rivals. But this is serious, Shunsuke. Let the students at Keio talk all they want—I just want you to breathe again.”
Miyu hit the hands-free button on the steering wheel, her voice shifting instantly. The tremor of fear in her eyes didn’t touch her tone; she sounded cold, clinical, and unshakable.
“Keio University Hospital Emergency Department, how can I help you?”
Miyu didn’t waste a second. “My name is Nakashima Miyu Lin, a third-year medical student at Tokyo daigaku. I’m currently transporting a twenty-five-year-old male with a severe unilateral headache. Presenting with ptosis and miosis on the right side. Patient has a history of chronic migraines, but this presentation is atypical. I suspect an acute cluster headache episode.”
Beside her, Shunsuke let out a jagged breath, his fingers digging into the leather upholstery.
“Vitals: bradycardia at fifty-five beats per minute—he’s an athlete, this is his baseline. Blood pressure is stable,” Miyu continued, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Medications: Sertraline and Prazosin. We are approximately twelve minutes out. I’m requesting an immediate evaluation and high-flow oxygen therapy upon arrival.”
There was a brief pause on the other end, punctuated by the rapid clacking of a keyboard. “Understood, Nakashima-san. Patient’s name?”
“Kawamura Shunsuke,” she said, her voice firm. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, thinking of the press. “Or Ishihara Shun. Both names are on file.”
“We’ll be ready. Proceed directly to the acute care entrance. Drive safely.”
The call disconnected with a sharp beep. The silence that followed was no longer heavy with helplessness; it was charged with the electric tension of a plan in motion.
The remainder of the drive was a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the low hum of the Lexus and the sound of their breathing. Shunsuke’s breath was labored now—ragged, shallow gasps that hitched every time the car vibrated.
When the white-blue lights of the Keio Acute Care entrance finally came into view, Miyu pulled the car to a smooth halt. A nurse was already there, the metallic rattle of a wheelchair echoing against the pavement as they approached.
Miyu stepped out, her movements sharp and efficient. She offered a quick, respectful bow before opening the passenger door. “Kawamura Shunsuke,” she said, her voice steady and professional. “I’m the one who called.”
The nurse nodded, already locking the wheels of the chair. “We have an exam room prepped. We’ll take him straight through. Before we go—may I ask what your relationship is to the patient?”
Miyu opened her mouth to speak, but a faint, strained voice beat her to it.
“She’s my fiancée,” Shunsuke rasped.
He didn’t open his eyes, and his hand was white-knuckled as he gripped the car door, but the word was clear. Miyu felt a hot flush creep up her neck. She caught the nurse’s eye and nodded firmly. She understood the weight of that lie—or perhaps, that promise. As his “fiancée,” the hospital would allow her to stay by his side in the treatment area, a privilege his “girlfriend” might not have been granted in such a strict environment.
Miyu kept her eyes fixed on the back of the nurse’s uniform as they navigated the hallway. They passed a cluster of medical students in white coats who paused, their conversation dying out as they recognized the man in the wheelchair.
A few soft giggles broke the silence. “Wait, isn’t that the student council president from Todai?” one whispered, not quite quietly enough. “What is he doing here at Keio?”
“Is that the girlfriend?” another added, leaning in to get a better look.
Miyu tightened her grip on her bag, her gaze never wavering. She heard the whispers, the snickering, the curiosity—but she shoved it all aside. Rivalries meant nothing right now. Not when Shunsuke was fighting a monster that science nicknamed the “suicide headache.”
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She had read the case studies. She knew that the pain of a cluster episode was often described as more intense than childbirth or broken bones. And yet, Shunsuke sat there, trembling but silent. He hadn’t cried out once; he hadn’t even whimpered.
A cold shiver ran down her spine. Part of her felt a fierce, aching pride in his strength—but a larger part of her, the medical student part, was terrified. If he was this stoic while his nerves were on fire, how much more was he hiding?
It was more than personal fortitude; it was the iron will of a leader. Shunsuke refused to give the Keio students the satisfaction of seeing the pride of Todai break. He was preserving his mentsu through sheer, impossible agony—holding himself together with a strength that looked like glass ready to shatter.
The nurse stopped the wheelchair abruptly. She turned her head, her voice low but cutting through the hallway like a surgical scalpel. “This is a hospital, not a school club. If you have time to gossip, you have time to review charts. Move along.”
The students scattered, properly chastised. The nurse offered Miyu a brief look of professional solidarity before pushing the chair into the treatment bay.
The room was bathed in a deep, intentional dimness—not completely dark, but low enough to offer Shunsuke’s frayed nerves a moment of sanctuary. The nurse helped him transition from the chair to the bed, her movements practiced and gentle. “The neurologist will be here in a few minutes,” she whispered before quietly retreating and closing the door behind her.
The silence that followed was thick. Miyu stood over him, her heart aching as she watched the way he clenched his jaw so hard his muscles jumped.
“You can cry, Shunsuke. You can whimper,” she said, her voice a soft, trembling plea. “We’re alone. Nobody will think of you as weak.”
Shunsuke’s head moved in a slow, stubborn ghost of a shake. “No,” he rasped. “Not here. Not in this building.”
Miyu let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “Is your reputation as the Todai president really more important than your own pain?”
Shunsuke looked away, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth threatened to crack. “I… needed to… hide my pain… my whole life,” he rasped, the words coming out in jagged, painful pieces. “It’s… not that… simple.”
Miyu saw the raw, ancient hurt in his eyes—a shadow that went far deeper than a headache. Before she could respond, the door pushed open again. One of the medical students from the hallway entered, pushing a tall green oxygen cylinder. Her previous giggles were gone, replaced by a focused, professional mask.
“I was instructed to administer the high-flow oxygen, Ishihara-sama,” she said, her tone hushed and polite.
Shunsuke gave a sharp, micro-nod. Miyu stepped back to give the student space, watching with a hawk-like intensity. As the student lowered the mask over his face, Shunsuke flinched—a momentary, instinctive recoil from the touch—before forcing himself to relax.
“The neurologist will be here shortly, but we’re starting the treatment immediately,” the student explained as she adjusted the flow rate.
Once the student departed, the room grew quiet, dominated by the steady, rhythmic hiss-whoosh of the oxygen. Miyu stepped back to the bedside immediately. Her hands hovered over the regulator and the seal of the mask; she didn’t think the student would be malicious, but her medical instincts wouldn’t let her rest until she had verified the flow rate and the seal herself.
Satisfied with the equipment, Miyu shifted her entire focus back to him. She pulled the single visitor’s chair so close that her knees brushed against the metal bed frame. She didn’t speak; words were merely useless noise in a room where silence was a form of medicine.
Instead, she carefully slid her hand beneath his—the one that wasn’t white-knuckled and gripping the bedsheet. She didn’t force a grip; she simply offered her palm as a grounding weight, a tether to a reality outside the agony. Her thumb began to stroke slow, steady circles over his knuckles—a deliberate, rhythmic counterpoint to the hiss of the oxygen. She was a metronome for his survival.
With her free hand, she pulled out her phone and typed a quick, steady message to Ryuichi:
We are at Keio University Hospital ER. Shunsuke is having a suspected cluster headache episode. It’s rare, but the pain is extreme. He is already receiving high-flow oxygen treatment. I’ll keep you updated.
She looked back at Shunsuke. His eyes remained closed, but the harsh lines of tension around his mouth were finally beginning to soften. Ten minutes had passed. The oxygen was doing its job, constricting the dilated blood vessels and breaking the cycle of pain.
“Miyu… thank you,” she heard him whisper, the sound muffled slightly by the plastic of the mask.
Miyu shook her head, her eyes misting over. “There’s no need for that. I just want the pain to stop,” she said softly.
A faint, ghost of a smile touched his lips. “And… sorry,” he added, his voice regaining a sliver of its usual warmth. “Sorry for being so difficult sometimes.”
Miyu’s phone buzzed in her palm. When she glanced at the screen, a soft, genuine chuckle escaped her—the first real sound of relief since they had left the Nakashima compound.
She read the message from Ryuichi:
“In Keio? Todai’s student council president surrendering to the enemy? Our reputation is in shambles. Just kidding—I hope he feels better. Give him our best for a quick recovery from me, Hina, and Misaki. Also, your brother is already mobilizing the student council. Haha.”
Shunsuke shifted slightly, his eyes tracking her expression through the clear plastic of the oxygen mask. “What is it?” he asked, his voice still faint but lacking the jagged edge of pain from before.
Miyu smiled, leaning closer so he could see her face. “It’s Ryuichi. I told him where we were. He told me to wish you a good recovery from the whole family… but he couldn’t hide his amusement about the location.”
Shunsuke let out a weak, raspy chuckle that made the mask fog up for a second. “That’s exactly like him. He’s never going to let me live this down, is he?”
“Probably not,” Miyu teased, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “He said Shin is already ‘mobilizing’ the student council. You might have a very loud welcoming committee when you get back to campus.”
She was about to respond when the door slid open with a quiet mechanical hiss. The neurologist entered—a man with striking silver hair and a gaze that moved with the precision of a camera lens, checking the oxygen gauge before landing on Shunsuke’s face.
“Good,” the doctor noted, observing the fogging on the mask and the slight loosening of Shunsuke’s posture. “You’re able to engage. That’s our first indicator. On a scale of one to ten, where is the pain now compared to when you first arrived?”
Shunsuke took a slow, deliberate breath of the high-flow oxygen, the mask pressing against his face. “An eight… maybe a seven,” he murmured, his voice sounding hollow inside the plastic. “It’s… blunter. Not as sharp.”
“Excellent. That is exactly the response we want to see. We will continue the flow for another fifteen minutes.” The doctor’s gaze shifted to Miyu, offering a sharp, professional nod. “Your pre-arrival information was exceptionally precise, Nakashima-san. It saved us critical time.”
He made a quick note on the electronic chart, his expression softening slightly. “I’ll leave you with your fiancée for now. Continue the deep, steady breaths, Ishihara-sama. We’ll re-evaluate shortly.”
As the door clicked shut, a faint pink tinge colored Shunsuke’s ears, visible even above the mask strap. His eyes sought Miyu’s, filled with a mix of sheepishness and apology. “I… uh… sorry for the sudden promotion,” he mumbled, the words slightly distorted.
Miyu’s smile turned soft, her thumb once again tracing a circle on his hand. “Don’t be. It was a strategic masterstroke. Honestly, it’s the best decision you’ve made all night.”