279. Joy’s Death
Beep... Beep... ~Beep...
The rhythmic, clinical chirping of the vital monitor was the only thing anchoring her to the world. It was a cold, sterile sound that echoed through the white-tiled hospital room, cutting through the hushed whispers of nurses and the soft squeak of rubber soles on linoleum.
Joy Cha Kim lay motionless, a fragile figure swaddled in a coarse patient’s gown. Her world had narrowed down to the ceiling tiles above her and the heavy, plastic weight of the oxygen mask pressed against her face. Tubes snaked from her arms like transparent vines, and the hum of the life-support machinery felt like a vibration deep within her marrow.
The door swished open. A doctor, his face a mask of professional solemnity, looked at the man standing by the bed. "We’ve done everything we can, sir," the doctor said softly, his voice carrying the weight of a final verdict. "You have to brace yourself. It’s only a matter of minutes now."
As the medical staff retreated into the hallway, the man in the charcoal-grey suit stumbled forward. His composure, usually as iron-clad as his business reputation, shattered.
"J... Joy..." he stammered, his voice breaking into a ragged sob.
Tears tracked down his face, falling onto the sterile sheets. He reached out, his hand trembling as he grasped her limp, pale fingers. He looked at his daughter, the bright, hardworking girl who had spent her youth trying to ease his burdens and he fell to his knees beside the bed.
"I... I’m sorry. I’m so sorry," he repeated, the words a mantra of agonizing regret. "If only I had been a better dad. If only I had earned enough so you didn't have to work those double shifts... if only I hadn't let you cross the street tonight..."
He buried his face in the mattress, his shoulders heaving. He babbled about the things he should have done, the life she should have had, a life filled with the luxuries he couldn't provide, rather than the exhaustion that had led to her accident.
Joy watched him through a haze of pain and fading consciousness. Every breath was a monumental struggle, her lungs feeling as though they were filled with shards of glass. The accident had been too severe; the internal damage was a debt her body could no longer pay.
She wanted to reach out. She wanted to pull his head to her chest and tell him it was okay. She wanted to tell him that he had been a wonderful father, that the life they shared while modest and filled with struggle, was one she cherished. She didn't regret the hard work; she regretted that she couldn't stay to see him smile one last time. But the words were trapped behind the mask, silenced by the blood in her throat.
‘Please stay awake…’ she told herself, her vision beginning to tunnel. ‘Just a little longer.’
"Please, Joy... stay awake," her father pleaded, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "At least until your mother arrives. She’s coming. She’s almost here."
The ringing in her head grew louder, harmonizing with the steady beep of the monitor. Minutes felt like agonizing days. She stared at the ceiling, her tears blurring the light of the fluorescent bulbs. She fought the darkness, pushing against the cold tide of death with every ounce of her spirit.
Then, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the hall. A frantic, desperate energy approached the door. A blurry figure, tall, familiar, and smelling of the perfume Joy had gifted her for her last birthday, burst into the room.
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Joy couldn't see her mother's face clearly. The world was dissolving into a sea of white static. But as the figure rushed to the other side of the bed, Joy felt a sense of profound, final solace.
“She made it.”
With that single thought, the tension in Joy’s chest snapped. The vital monitor’s rhythmic chirping shifted into a long, continuous, and haunting drone. The ceiling tiles vanished, the hospital room dissolved, and Joy Cha Kim stepped out of her broken body and into the endless void.
[ Notification ]
An Entity seeks permission to enter the origin domain “The Office”, grant permission?
[Y/N]
With a decisive motion, she reached out and tapped [ YES ].
The void didn't just brighten; it shattered. The darkness fell away like broken glass, and the sterile, white-tiled floor of her "Office" manifested beneath her feet. The hum of a high-end white noise and the soft glow of the fluorescent like lights on the ceiling greeted her.
But Ravenna didn't look at the empty room. She looked at the swivel chair sitting in front of a desk.
Her gaze was fixed on the leather swivel chair at the center of the room. It was occupied. A man sat there, draped in a crisp, charcoal-grey suit that belonged in an Earthly boardroom, not a courtroom of this world. As the chair slowly rotated, Ravenna, no rather Joy Cha Kim’s heart stopped. The sharp jawline, the stern yet weary eyes, the precise knot of his silk tie, it was him.
“Dad..?” She blunted out with heavy emotions.
It was her father, looking exactly as he had the day she left his world. In this sanctuary of the domain origin, the ghost of her past which she was longing for was waiting.
She took a frantic step forward, her hand reaching out. But as she moved to rush him, the man held up a single, firm hand.
“I am not your father, Otherworlder,” he said.
The voice was cold. It lacked the warmth of the man who used to tuck her in, replaced by a resonant, hollow tone that seemed to echo from every corner of the room simultaneously. Ravenna froze in her tracks, the emotional whiplash hitting her like a physical blow.
“I thought a familiar face would have made this conversation easier to navigate,” the man said, his gaze as sharp and clinical as a scalpel. “But it seems I misjudged the volatility of your species' attachments.”
Suddenly, the man’s image began to glitch. His form flickered with digital static, his charcoal suit warping into jagged lines of code before stabilizing into a completely different form.
Standing before her now was a handsome man in his early twenties, possessing the polished, perfection of a K-pop idol she might have seen on a billboard in her past life. His hair was styled flawlessly, and his eyes were a piercing, unnatural shade of violet.
“I suppose a stranger is better suited for these types of interactions,” the man said, smoothing out the lapel of a new, shimmering silver vest. “It is such a bother, trying to understand the intricacies of human sentiment.”
“Who... Who are you?!” Ravenna demanded. The tears were still hot in her eyes, fueled now by a white-hot rage. Seeing her father’s face used as a puppet, a mere skin to be discarded, felt like a violation of her most sacred memory. “What right do you have to use his face?”
“Oh my... I didn’t mean to upset you, Otherworlder,” the man replied, his tone mocking in its politeness. He leaned against the edge of a desk, looking bored. “I merely wished to have a private audience with the new wielder of Universal Origin. It isn't every day a foreign soul manages to anchor itself so firmly into my canvas.”
Ravenna stood her ground, her daggers materializing in her hands as she ignored his words. She didn't want to hear another word from this imposter. Every second he stood in her sanctuary felt like a stain.
“Who the hell are you?” she hissed.
“I see... this is why I say self-awareness is a disease,” the man sighed, shaking his head. “You cannot even think logically because you are so caught up in the chemical surges of your primitive emotions. You are blinded by the very thing I intend to cure.”
He stepped closer, the white noise in the room rising to a deafening roar.
“Who do you think I am? In this world, I am the silence between the stars. I am the architect of the laws you mortels try so hard to manipulate. I am the one you mortals call the Absolute Being.”