Chapter 807: Yang’s Guilt

Hiro stared at the doctor, his pupils full of anticipation.

The doctor looked at him while adjusting his glasses. Then his lips parted.

"We still need to review the reports..." He said carefully.

"Then review them."

Hiro had been waiting for the result. This wasn’t the answer he was waiting for. When it came, he couldn’t help but feel a sharp sting of irritation.

"Hiro—"

The doctor’s gaze softened, pity flickering behind his eyes.

Hiro, however, didn’t need words of encouragement. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted the answer, as soon as possible.

"Please—" He said, averting his gaze. "I just need the truth."

He appeared vulnerable at this moment. Even the slightest of things seemed to bother him. He reacted to almost everything, his nerves frayed and fragile.

But the doctor couldn’t bring himself to complain. He understood the reason behind his antics. He could tell—Hiro was on edge, teetering on the brink of something dark.

Because he had suffered a similar injury that had once threatened his career, the doctor could somehow relate. The more he looked at him, the more pitiful he felt.

"You’ll have it in a while," the doctor assured, his voice gentle.

Hiro didn’t respond.

A damp silence fell upon the room, heavy and suffocating. His heart felt heavier with each passing second—like a sponge soaking up water, growing denser, more unbearable.

For the next few hours, he sat alone without uttering a word. Nurses and medical personnel came and went, performing their routine checkups. But he didn’t bother to take notice of their arrivals or departures.

He just remained idle in bed.

He was told that there were people who had been waiting on him. But he couldn’t bring himself to see those people.

The club officials had been coordinating with the medical personnel to provide him with the care he needed.

**** ****

The room was quiet—almost too quiet.

The golden light of the setting sun spilled through the gaps in the curtains, casting warm, elongated shadows across the floor. Dust motes danced lazily in the amber glow, suspended in the stillness.

Inside the room, Yang sat leaning against the wooden wall, his head lowered. His shoulders were slumped, his hands resting limply at his sides.

Chirp~

He could hear the chirping of birds outside these four walls he had locked himself within. But he couldn’t bring himself to rejoice in the sound.

Had it been before the incident, he would have been leaning against the railing on his balcony, eyes closed, letting the melody of nature wash over him. He liked hearing the chirp of the birds, the rustling leaves, the tiny squirrels that darted across his backyard.

Those moments of bliss were his escape from the relentless grind of training. He spent most of his days on the pitch, pushing his limits, chasing something just out of reach.

But whenever he had the chance, he sought refuge in nature—a quiet corner of the world where he could simply exist without pressure, without expectation.

That was why he had chosen this secluded place. A retreat where he could be alone.

However, right now, he couldn’t bring himself to forgive himself.

The crime he had committed and the guilt that was eating him alive consumed every corner of his mind. He couldn’t think of anything else. The guilt of injuring Hiro haunted him like a vengeful specter, a curse that refused to release its grip.

The curse clung to him, denying him peaceful sleep. His nights were restless, his dreams fractured by the image of Hiro writhing on the ground. The thought stuck in his mind 24/7, a relentless loop that prevented him from focusing on anything else.

The lack of sleep and the absence of peace had made him restless, drained, hollow. The life had been sucked out of him—his spark extinguished, his fire reduced to embers.

Even during training sessions, he often zoned out, his gaze distant, his movements mechanical. His performance suffered, his sharpness dulled into something barely recognizable.

He looked scarred—haunted by a ghost only he could see.

His coaches worried about his faltering condition. Concerned, they tried to talk him out of his trauma, offering words of encouragement, trying to pull him back from the edge.

But despite their efforts, his condition continued to deteriorate—like a wound that refused to heal, festering beneath the surface.

Even so, the club couldn’t give up on him.

Even in his current condition, he remained a valuable asset to the club. His performances before the incident had been top-notch—electric, promising, full of potential. The club believed in his future, and his managers had nothing but praise for him.

Be it his work ethic or his professionalism, he was simply too valuable to ignore.

Due to this, the club had hired one of the leading specialists in sports psychology to treat him. Since then, he had been undergoing therapy alongside his training—a fragile attempt to piece together what had been shattered.

Ring~ Ring~

The sharp, discordant ringing noise echoed through the stillness, stealing his attention. He couldn’t avoid it—the sound was too jarring, too insistent.

He reached for his phone, lying just beside him. The screen lit up as he held it against his face. Without wasting a moment, he switched off the alarm.

Just as he did, another interface appeared on his phone—a cascade of notifications flooding his screen. Though he had kept his phone on silent, the visual assault was relentless.

He didn’t bother going through all of them.

"Just another set of hate comments and death threats..." He muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

His expression didn’t change. His pupils looked as listless as someone who had lost their soul. The spark in his eyes was gone—extinguished, replaced by a hollow emptiness.

Even his complexion appeared pale, drained of life.

Since that incident, he had been receiving an endless stream of negative comments. Some were so extreme that he couldn’t even bring himself to look at them without losing his composure.

The guilt of injuring Hiro alone was eating him alive. But these threats and hate comments—they were like salt in an open wound, further feeding the flames of his self-destruction.