Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 173: Something Off

The hospital room is silent—the kind of silence that presses against your ears, heavy and suffocating. Machines beep softly in the background, their rhythms steady and indifferent, monitoring the fragile life lying in the bed.

Angel lies motionless, his face pale as the pillow beneath his head, his breath shallow but steady. An IV drips slowly into his arm, clear liquid traveling through thin tubes into his too-still body, each drop a quiet rcy.

Deniz and I sit on the small couch against the wall, the vinyl cold beneath us despite the room’s warmth. My eyes are fixed on Angel, unable to look away, as if staring hard enough could undo whatever happened.

How did this happen?

How did he collapse so suddenly?

I close my eyes, and a shaky breath escapes my lips. The sound is small, but in this silence, it feels enormous.

Neon... you forgot him again.

You promised to take care of him, and you were off living your life, falling in love, chasing happiness, while he was—

Deniz’s hand finds mine, warm and solid. He squeezes gently, a lifeline in the storm. His other hand rests on my back, patting slow, steady rhythms that try to anchor to the present.

"Zyren."

His voice is soft, ant only for , ant to reach through the fog.

I open my eyes and look at him. His dark eyes are steady, full of that quiet strength I’ve co to rely on.

He squeezes my hand again. "Don’t worry. Everything will be okay. The doctors said he’s stable now. He’s going to be fine."

My voice cos out slow, heavy with guilt that sits in my chest like a stone.

"Deniz... I feel guilty."

His brow furrows. He reaches up, cupping my face with his hand, his palm warm against my cold skin.

"Why?"

I don’t try to hide. I can’t. Not from him. Not now. Not when Angel lies there, pale and broken, because I wasn’t paying attention.

"I call him family."

My voice cracks, splintering along fault lines I didn’t know existed. "I promised I’d always take care of him. But I..."

I look down at our joined hands, my eyes lingering on the silver ring on Deniz’s finger, catching the cold fluorescent light.

"I broke my promise."

His fingers move to my chin, gently lifting my face until our eyes et again. His gaze is unwavering, a steady fla in the darkness.

"Zyren."

His voice is firm but kind, the voice of soone who refuses to let drown.

"You don’t need to feel guilty. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were busy—with work, with life, with things that matter."

His hand moves to my silver hair, patting softly, trying to comfort completely. The gesture is so tender, so him, that it makes my chest ache.

"You’re a good person." He pauses, a small smile touching his lips, fragile but real.

"A good family. And I’m sure Mr. Angel isn’t angry with you. He cares about you. He knows you care about him."

I stare at him for a long mont, drinking in his certainty, his warmth, his unwavering belief in . I open my mouth to respond—

Knock... Knock...

The door opens—

Ziya steps in, and the atmosphere shifts instantly. Deniz straightens, our hands separating as he slides into professional mode. He stands beside , mask in place, the perfect assistant, though I can still feel his warmth lingering on my skin.

Ziya approaches, his young face pale, his eyes flickering to Angel’s prone form. Worry is etched into every line of his expression, deeper than I’ve ever seen on him. He bows lightly, chanically.

"Mr. President." His voice is unsteady, wavering like a candle in wind. "The doctor said Brother Angel is stable now. Nothing life-threatening."

A pause, as if the words themselves are hard to say. "They gave him dicine. He needs rest."

His gaze drifts to Angel again, lingering for just a mont too long. There’s sothing in that look—sothing raw, sothing unprotected. I file it away for later.

"But..."

Ziya continues, tearing his eyes away with visible effort. "The doctor said they suspect sothing... off. In Brother Angel’s body. They need to run so tests."

He swallows hard. "Results will be ready in about an hour."

I nod, my eyes still on Angel.

Sothing off. What does that an?

What’s wrong with him?

"How did this happen?" I ask quietly. My voice is calm, but beneath it, sothing cold is coiling in my chest.

Ziya’s voice wavers. "Mr. President, Brother Angel was fine this morning. He was in a good mood. Happy, even. Completely normal."

He pauses, thinking, searching his mory for anything he might have missed. "He ate normally. He was laughing. He seed... fine."

"Did he eat sothing unhealthy?" I press.

"Sothing different?"

Ziya shakes his head firmly. "No, nothing different. Sa as always." Then his eyes widen, a mory surfacing.

"Wait—Mr. President!"

I look at him sharply, my body tensing.

"At lunch ti," Ziya says, his voice rising with urgency, "he and Mr. Moon ate together."

My eyes widen. The na lands in my chest like a stone in still water.

"What did you say?"

Ziya nods urgently, words tumbling out now. "Mr. Moon and Brother Angel talked after a shoot for a while. During lunch. I saw them together. They were just talking, I thought nothing of it, but after their conversation, Brother Angel went to change in the dressing room..."

His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white.

"And he never ca back."

I lean forward, my body coiled tight, every muscle tense.

"I waited so long." Ziya’s voice cracks, emotion bleeding through the professional facade. "I kept waiting, thinking maybe he was just tired, maybe he fell asleep. But when he didn’t co out, I went to check." He stops, swallows hard. "I found him collapsed on the floor. The dressing room was..." He trails off, eyes distant, seeing it again. "It was filled with his pheromones. Completely. Like he’d gone into sudden heat. Like his body just... gave out."

I look down at my clenched fists. My nails dig into my palms.

Moon.

Did you do sothing? Did you say sothing?

Did you push him over so edge I don’t know about?

If you’re the reason Angel is lying in this hospital bed, pale and broken and hooked to machines—if you hurt him, if you touched him, if you so much as looked at him wrong—

I won’t let it slide.

Not with him.

Bonus 🌸 — Moon Arden & His Secretary:

The car glides through the city streets, smooth and silent, the kind of luxury vehicle that shuts out the world outside.

Moon sits in the back seat, relaxed against the leather, his gaze fixed on the window, watching the city blur past, not really seeing it. His reflection stares back—composed, perfect, the image of a superstar at ease.

His secretary sits in the driver’s seat, hands steady on the wheel, navigating traffic with practiced ease. He glances at the rearview mirror, studying his boss’s profile for a mont before speaking.

"Sir..."

Moon’s gaze shifts slowly, lazily, to et his secretary’s eyes in the mirror. The weight of that blue stare is enough to make anyone uncomfortable.

Kaz adjusts his glasses nervously.

"Are you alright, sir?"

Moon stares at him for a long, silent mont, as if the question needs translating. Then he looks away, back at the window, at the passing buildings and people living their ordinary lives.

"Kaz." His voice is quiet, almost thoughtful. "I want to et soone."

Kaz blinks, processing.

"Sir, should I book a restaurant? A hotel room? Sowhere private?"

Moon shakes his head slowly. "No. The person is angry with ."

A pause. "How do I make him happy?"

Kaz’s eyebrows rise. This is new territory. Moon Arden doesn’t ask for advice. Moon Arden doesn’t wonder how to make people happy—people exist to make him happy.

"Sir..." Kaz hesitates, unsure how to navigate this unfamiliar landscape.

Moon’s eyes find him in the mirror again, and for once, there’s sothing different in them.

Not command. Not expectation. Sothing almost... eager.

"Give so tips," Moon says, and there’s actual curiosity in his voice.

Kaz swallows. "Well, sir... if you’ve done sothing wrong, you should apologize."

Moon’s expression shifts instantly—a flash of indignation.

"I didn’t do anything wrong."

Kaz’s voice weakens under that gaze.

"Then... perhaps a gift? Sothing to show you care?"

Moon considers this, his head tilting slightly. "That’s a good idea. But he don’t like expensive things."

Kaz blinks.

Doesn’t like expensive things? Who is this person?

He adjusts his glasses again, a nervous habit, and thinks quickly.

"Then... sothing normal, sir. Sothing different from what they’d expect."

Moon’s eyebrows rise, intrigued. "What do you an, normal?"

Kaz’s eyes catch on a passing storefront—a small bakery with a cheerful yellow awning, steam rising from its chimney, a line of custors waiting outside. The sight triggers an idea.

"Like buying sweets, sir. Everyone likes sweets. Sothing handmade, thoughtful. I’m sure they’d appreciate it."

Moon follows his gaze to the bakery, watching it pass. Then he looks back at Kaz.

"Then stop at a bakery."

A pause, thoughtful. "Make sure it’s famous.

It has to be the best."

Kaz nods quickly, relief flooding through him. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

He glances at the mirror again, stealing a look at his boss’s face.

Moon has turned back to the window, his fingers tapping once against his knee—impatient.

But there’s sothing different in his posture now.

Sothing almost... hopeful.

Who could possibly make Moon Arden think this hard?

Kaz wonders.

Who could make the most sought-after superstar in the country sit in the back of a car, asking for advice on how to apologize with cupcakes?