JP opened his eyes at 6:21 that evening.
Mr. Kim called while I was finishing June's broth.
"He is not ready for a normal conversation," he said. "He followed two commands, recognized his mother, and returned to sleep. The doctors are keeping him in intensive care for neurological observation."
The spoon stopped halfway to my mouth.
"Can I see him?"
"His mother asked to speak with you first."
That answer frightened me more than no.
Kitty took the empty container from my hand and closed it.
"I'll come with you."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
The rain had weakened by the time we left Utopia, but water still covered the eastern road. Campus shuttle service had ended early because of the transportation stoppage. We walked to the hospital beneath the black umbrella NS had left with June and June had quietly returned to the residence desk without a message.
Kitty carried it.
I carried the corner bag.
The white towel was still inside.
City Square General Hospital operated on emergency power.
Half the lobby lights were dark. Elevators were reserved for patients and critical staff while the backup generators supported intensive care, operating rooms, and emergency equipment. A handwritten sign on the vending machine read PURIFIED WATER UNAVAILABLE.
Kitty and I climbed three floors by the stairs.
NC, Anna, Jihye, Bunny, and Cherry had filled a paper bag with cards, fruit, a phone charger, and the soccer magazine JP bought every month but never finished reading. TZ had left his team scarf at the hospital earlier that afternoon.
The ICU nurse accepted the bag but warned that nothing could enter JP's room until the family approved it.
A physician met the family near the observation window before anyone spoke with me.
Kitty and I remained far enough away to give them privacy, but the quiet corridor carried every careful sentence.
"The repeat scan does not show an expanding hemorrhage," the physician said. "That is reassuring. He sustained a cerebral contusion and a significant concussion. We removed the breathing tube because he is protecting his airway and breathing adequately on his own."
JP's mother held her daughter's hand.
"Will he recover completely?"
The physician did not offer the easy promise she wanted.
"Following commands and recognizing you are positive signs. It is still too early to predict the speed or completeness of recovery. Headaches, dizziness, concentration difficulty, sleep disturbance, and emotional changes are possible. We will understand more as he remains awake for longer periods."
"Will he go back to university?" his sister asked.
"That decision will come later. Right now, his job is to wake, rest, and heal."
The girl looked through the glass.
"He hates resting."
"Then he will need people he trusts to make him do it."
The words reached me from across the corridor.
People he trusted.
People who were supposed to make the safer decision when he could not.
Mr. Kim waited outside the family consultation room.
He looked older than he had during the tournament.
"His mother traveled through the night," he said. "The airport cancellations stopped the first route. She and the younger daughter came by road."
"Does she know everything?"
"She has seen the public footage."
"That isn't everything."
"She knows you were in his corner. Right now, that is the part that matters to her."
Kitty touched the corner bag.
"I can go inside with him."
Mr. Kim shook his head.
"She asked for XH alone."
Kitty looked at me.
"I'll be outside."
I entered.
JP's mother sat with both hands around a paper cup she had not touched.
His little sister occupied the chair beside her. She wore JP's soccer jersey over a long-sleeved shirt. It reached almost to her knees.
Neither stood when I entered.
I bowed.
"I'm sorry."
JP's mother studied the bruises on my face.
"Were you the one holding the towel?"
"Yes."
"Sit down."
I sat across from them.
The consultation room contained one table, four chairs, and a box of tissues placed where every family could reach it. The generator vibration traveled faintly through the floor.
JP's mother placed her cup on the table.
"My son told us he had a university event. He said it was connected to the medical program and that he would be busy for the weekend."
She looked toward her daughter.
"The hospital called us after midnight. That was how we learned he had entered a fight. His sister saw the knockout online before I reached her room."
The girl held the bottom of the jersey in both fists.
"He sent me a picture before it started," she said. "He said he would make Year 2 proud."
I remembered JP wearing the same club colors beneath his corner jacket. He had joked that a man could not lose while representing both football and medicine.
"He was proud of all of you," his mother continued. "He spoke about XH, NS, TZ, and the others so often that I knew your names before I knew your faces."
Her voice remained controlled.
"Then I watched you stand beside him while another man hit him until he stopped moving."
"I wanted to throw the towel."
"But you didn't."
"He looked at me and shook his head."
The answer sounded weak as soon as it entered the room.
"My son was concussed and standing inside a cage," she said. "You were outside it. Which one of you was supposed to make the safer decision?"
I looked at the table.
"I thought I was respecting what he wanted."
"You mistook his pride for permission."
The little sister's eyes had begun filling.
"Could you have stopped it?" she asked.
Her mother closed her eyes briefly.
"You do not have to ask him that."
"I want to know."
She looked directly at me.
"Could you have thrown it before the last round?"
"Yes."
"Then why didn't you?"
There were many answers.
Thoon's promise. JP's dignity. The Med Track wager. The crowd. KM's laughter. The small movement of JP's head telling me not to surrender for him.
None belonged in front of his sister.
"I made the wrong decision."
JP's mother pressed one hand against her mouth before lowering it.
"He trusted you."
"I know."
"No. He trusted you to know when he could no longer choose for himself. You waited until the choice disappeared."
I could not look away from her.
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry does not wake him faster."
"I know."
"Sorry does not tell me whether he will return to university without headaches, memory problems, or fear every time someone raises a hand near him."
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
Her voice finally broke.
"If you knew, my son would not be in intensive care."
The room became silent except for the generator beneath us.
I placed both hands on my knees and bowed until the injured wrist hurt.
"You can blame me," I said. "I won't argue."
"I do blame you."
She did not shout it.
That made the words permanent.
"But I am not the university, and I am not the police. I do not want another mother sitting in this room because you decided guilt required more violence."
I raised my head.
JP's mother had already turned toward her daughter.
The conversation was over.
The ICU allowed us to look through the observation window.
JP lay beneath a thin blanket with an oxygen cannula beneath his nose. One side of his face was swollen. The physicians had removed the breathing tube earlier, but monitors still followed every heartbeat, breath, and change in oxygen level.
His mother and sister entered first.
JP opened his eyes when his sister touched his hand.
His gaze moved slowly across the room. He recognized the jersey and attempted to smile. Only one side of his mouth responded.
His sister began crying before the smile finished.
I remained behind the glass.
JP never saw me.
Kitty stood beside me without speaking. The white towel remained inside the corner bag between us.
"She was right," I said.
"About part of it."
"Which part was wrong?"
"The part where you are trying to become the only person responsible."
"I held the towel."
"KM hit him. VT changed the rules. Thoon gave him a promise she never intended to keep. JP chose to continue. You chose not to stop him. Those facts exist together."
"Only one of those choices was mine."
"Then take responsibility for yours. Do not steal everybody else's because you want guilt to feel simple."
Mr. Kim had approached quietly behind us.
"Kitty is right," he said.
"That is becoming an unpleasant pattern," I replied.
Kitty almost smiled.
Mr. Kim looked through the glass at JP.
"His mother's anger has a place," he said. "Let it stay there. Reflection is not finding a person to punish, even when that person is yourself."
"The hearing is tomorrow."
"Then tell the panel the truth. Afterward, you continue making better decisions whether they keep you or not."
Lightning flashed beyond the ICU windows.
For several seconds, every monitor reflection appeared against the glass like a second hospital layered over the first.
"Can I leave the towel?" I asked.
Mr. Kim shook his head.
"Not tonight."
I carried it home.
Kitty walked with me as far as the male dormitory entrance.
The storm had returned. Lightning divided the sky above the dry grand fountain while rain collected inside its empty bowls. The campus lake remained strangely low beyond it, as if the water disappeared faster than the weather could replace it.
"Do you want me to stay?" Kitty asked.
"The hearing is in the morning. I need to prepare."
"That was not my question."
"If you stay, I will talk instead of prepare."
"You say that as if talking is dangerous."
"Tonight it might be."
Kitty looked at the corner bag.
"Call me before you decide anything alone."
"That is a broad category."
"Good."
She waited until I entered the residence before walking back into the rain.
Inside my room, I opened UWorld because questions had become the closest thing I had to silence.
I created a twenty-question block on emergency medicine, neurology, and trauma.
The first vignette described an athlete who lost consciousness after a collision.
I selected an answer without reading all five options.
Wrong.
The second described worsening headache and vomiting after head trauma.
I saw JP beneath the ICU blanket.
Wrong.
The third asked for the next step after a patient's neurological status changed.
Throw the towel.
The phrase appeared where the answer choices should have been.
I closed the block after Question Eight.
The program warned that unfinished questions would be recorded as omitted.
I submitted them anyway.
3/20 CORRECT
15%
The score that would normally have controlled my breathing did nothing.
I opened the notebook labeled WHY I GOT IT WRONG.
Under the first empty line, I wrote:
I knew the warning signs and still waited.
That was not a medical explanation.
I left it there.
Then I opened the hearing-preparation document and returned to Mr. Kim's hardest question.
WHY SHOULD THIS UNIVERSITY TRUST YOU NEAR A VULNERABLE PATIENT?
My first answer blamed VT.
I deleted it.
My second blamed the rules, the crowd, and the deepfake recordings.
I deleted that too.
On the third attempt, I wrote:
The university should not trust me because I ask it to. I broke that trust. I am asking for the opportunity to earn it again through supervised work, counseling, and conduct that proves I understand what knowledge without restraint can do.
I did not know whether the answer would save me.
It was the first one that sounded true.
NS's witness statement waited in my university inbox.
I opened it after returning to the dormitory.
He had written four pages.
The first described VT's deepfake recordings and the private messages designed to provoke both fighters. The second confirmed that the tournament rules had been altered to encourage prolonged violence. The third accepted responsibility for entering the fight, refusing reconciliation, and repeatedly escalating the conflict.
The final paragraph addressed me.
XH's illegal strike and failure to release the hold should be reviewed honestly. They should not be separated from my willing participation, my own conduct, or the environment deliberately created around us. I do not request criminal charges or permanent removal on my behalf.
I read the paragraph again.
Then I sent him one message.
XH: I received it.
NS replied several minutes later.
NS: READ ALL FOUR PAGES BEFORE YOU COMPLAIN ABOUT THE GRAMMAR.
I found three grammar mistakes.
I did not mention them.
My phone vibrated again before I could close the inbox.
This notification came from an account with no name and no profile image.
The attached video showed KM outside the Engineering Building with four men from his crew. A bandage covered the cut JP had opened above his eyebrow.
KM looked directly into the camera.
"The Comedy King wanted four rounds," he said. "I gave him four rounds and a hospital bed. Now Med Track is pretending that was courage."
The men behind him laughed.
"If XH wants to collect his boy's dignity, he knows where Engineering is. Bring the towel. We might need it again."
A message appeared beneath the video.
COME TEACH US SOME MANNERS, DOCTOR.
My hand closed around the phone.
The corner bag rested beside the desk.
The Engineering Building was less than twelve minutes away.
The hearing began in eleven hours.
I stood.
My clean jacket hung behind the door. The student card that no longer opened academic buildings remained inside its pocket. I put one arm through the sleeve before JP's mother's warning returned.
I do not want another mother sitting in this room because you decided guilt required more violence.
The anonymous account sent another message.
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE KING SLAYER?
Then a third.
OR DO YOU ONLY FIGHT FRIENDS?
I reached for the corner bag.
The towel lay on top, folded badly where I had pushed it inside after the tournament. One edge still carried a faint brown mark from the cage floor.
For the first time, I understood that the towel had never represented surrender.
It represented the responsibility to end something after pride stopped being able to recognize danger.
I removed the jacket.
The phone continued vibrating on the desk.
I watched the video once more, memorized every face, and locked the screen.
I did not go.
Not that night.