Ping Brooks comfortingly patted his wife's back. "It's okay, it's okay, everything will get better." But a trace of worry crept into his heart, because he also understood his son's condition and injuries. He feared that even if his son regained consciousness, it would still take a long time for further treatment.

How long would that be? The doctor hadn't said, but he knew it was definitely not an optimistic outlook.

"Matthew Bennett, come here and face your death!" A long, loud shout rang out, sounding so jarring in the quiet hospital room.

This was an intensive care ward, where all the patients were critically ill—if not already on the verge of death, then barely hanging on. Not to mention screaming, even breathing was difficult for them. So how could a patient possibly let out such a piercing scream?

Yet the one who let out this somewhat shrill shout was indeed a patient. The young man on the bed was almost tied down, with no fewer than five or six tubes inserted into his body, his head and body wrapped in layers of white bandages, looking almost like a zongzi. His face was unrecognizable, but it was clear that he was at least 1.8 meters tall, as his head and feet reached both ends of the bed. Although he couldn't move, that fierce shout had come from his mouth, and his eyes were filled with shock and confusion!

With a loud 'bang,' the ward door was flung open as a middle-aged woman rushed in—it was Helen Carter, who had been keeping vigil outside the ward day and night.

Seeing her son's eyes wide open on the bed, she suddenly cried out in delight, "Ping! Come quickly, look, Xiaofei is awake!"

A middle-aged man hurried in from outside, his slightly gaunt face showing signs of exhaustion. It was Ethan Brooks's father, Ping Brooks. Seeing the young man on the bed open his eyes, he couldn't help but exclaim in joy, "Doctor, doctor, come quickly, my son is awake!"

"Please keep your voices down." A slightly reproachful voice came from outside the door as a doctor walked in, his eyes full of disapproval. "This is the emergency ward. Have you considered that there are other critically ill patients in the neighboring rooms?" But in his heart, he was muttering, This can't be right. Dr. Sullivan said his son's injuries were so severe that even if he survived, he was very likely to become a vegetable. The hospital only kept him here for observation. How could he have woken up so soon?

"Yes, yes, yes, Dr. Smith, you're right," Ping Brooks replied repeatedly. "You see, we were just so happy we forgot ourselves." The attending doctor was Dr. Sullivan, but the one responsible for monitoring Ethan Brooks's condition was the Dr. Smith standing before them.

"If you forget, can others bear it?" That Dr. Smith muttered again, but still hurried a few steps forward to the young man's bedside. Just as he was about to lean down, he suddenly froze. He had seen many patients, but never one like this. He had never seen a critically ill patient with such a sharp gaze!

That look was as sharp as a blade or a sword, though it was mixed with even more confusion and shock. "Who are you?" the young man on the bed suddenly asked in a deep voice, his tone carrying an unexpected authority.

Dr. Smith didn't know why, but his heart trembled and his body stiffened on the spot. "Die... Good child, this is Dr. Smith, the doctor in charge of your treatment." The middle-aged woman spoke with a hint of reproach, but even more with joy. She didn't notice the oddity in the young man's tone. She had meant to scold him as a "dead child," but swallowed the words, as "dead" was too inauspicious. Although Dr. Smith wasn't the attending physician, in their eyes, any doctor in the hospital was not to be offended. Otherwise, if even one of the IV tubes was omitted, the suffering for her son would be minor, but delaying treatment would be a major issue.

Feeling a bit sad, the middle-aged woman looked at the bandages around her son's body and head. Dr. Sullivan had said that in this car accident, the child's internal organs and head were the most seriously injured. He had also said that although the EEG results were optimistic, there was still a possibility that he might never wake up—in other words, her son could very well become a vegetable.

At the time, she was completely stunned. But compared to receiving a critical condition notice after being admitted to the hospital, it was still a little better. With anxious hope, she kept vigil by her son's side every day. After two days, she had only gone home to rest for a few hours before rushing back with her husband. After all, with her son still unconscious, there was nothing else to prepare—just money.

She was a cost engineer, working in the same unit as her husband Ping Brooks. It was a pretty good profession these days, with a stable income. Among the working class, they were already considered upper-middle. Although the medical expenses were considerable, they could still afford them.

She hadn't dared hope her son would wake up so soon, but unexpectedly, he regained consciousness in just a day. She couldn't help but feel a bit resentful toward Dr. Sullivan for exaggerating—maybe the hospital just wanted to charge more money. The thought flashed through her mind, but she couldn't be bothered with it now.

If she had to choose between her son's life and all their possessions, she would not hesitate to choose the former. Money could be earned again if lost, but if her son was gone, he could never be brought back.