Episode 17: We Still Rise

The hospital room buzzed with quiet energy.

Not the sterile, lifeless kind—but something gentler, like the world was holding its breath.Machines hummed in soft rhythm; the monitors blinked green in steady pulses.The faint smell of disinfectant hung in the air, blending with the sharp tang of coffee from Ji-yoo’s thermos on the side table.

Outside, rain tapped faintly against the window. The world beyond felt distant—slowed, muted—while inside, time felt fragile and precious.

Because everyone on the fifth floor knew by now:Room 402 wasn’t just a recovery room anymore.It was a studio.A sanctuary.A stage.

The curtains were half-drawn, letting in a line of sunlight that fell directly over Marco’s bed like a spotlight.A microphone stood crookedly at his bedside, wires curling like ivy across the tile floor.An old tripod held a phone-camera steady, its red light blinking like a heartbeat.And beside the bed—on a creaky folding chair she’d dragged from the hallway—sat Ji-yoo, clutching her small portable keyboard, her fingers trembling slightly as she powered it on.

“You sure about this?” she asked softly. It was the tenth time that morning.

Marco lay propped up against his pillows, tubes and wires trailing across his arms. His skin was pale, his breathing shallow, but his grin—his damn grin—was still there, bright as ever.“Come on,” he said, voice raspy but playful. “You think a couple of tubes and a malfunctioning kidney are gonna stop me?”

Ji-yoo’s lips twitched into a nervous smile. “Yes, actually. That’s exactly what I think.”

“Then stop thinking.” He gave a small shrug. “I’m not missing our debut just because my body’s being an asshole.”

She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been called worse.” He reached for his water cup, took a slow sip, and added, “Mostly by you.”

She snorted. “Yeah, because you keep doing dumb things like this.”

He gave her a look—a soft, knowing one. “You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

The words made her pause.Her fingers froze above the keys, and for a moment, the only sound was the quiet hiss of the IV pump.

She finally looked up at him, eyes glinting with a mix of frustration and tenderness. “You know what’s worse than being in a band with you?”

“What?”

“Loving someone who never listens to reason.”

He grinned. “Then you’re screwed.”

She rolled her eyes, though her cheeks flushed faintly. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“Good thing you like insufferable guys.”

“Please,” she muttered, leaning forward to adjust the mic stand. “I only tolerate you because you sing in tune.”

“Sometimes,” he teased.Then his voice softened, just a fraction. “You ready?”

Her hands hovered above the keyboard. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then from the top,” he said, nodding.

The first chords of “Memory Tape” filled the air—thin, reedy notes from her small keyboard, but enough to fill the silence with warmth. Marco’s voice came in a second later, shaky at first, but steadying as he found the rhythm.

“We were static and light,in the corner of time,chasing echoes that never die…”


His voice cracked slightly on die, and Ji-yoo instinctively filled the gap—soft humming, a gentle harmony that wrapped around his faltering melody like silk.

He glanced at her mid-line, breathing uneven, and managed a small smile. “Keep going,” he mouthed.

She did. Not for the song. For him.

When the final note faded, Marco sank back into his pillows, breathless but glowing. Sweat glistened along his forehead. He looked exhausted—fragile even—but the smile that spread across his face was the most alive Ji-yoo had seen him in weeks.

“We still got it,” he gasped, voice hoarse.

Ji-yoo wiped a stray tear before he could see it. “We never lost it,” she whispered.

He chuckled, weakly. “You say that like it’s true.”

“It is,” she said, meeting his eyes. “You’re still here. That’s enough.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.The hum of machines filled the silence.Sunlight crept further across the bed, softening his sharp features.

Then Marco nodded toward the mic. “You think the acoustics here are any good?”

She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m serious,” he said, tapping the mic. “If we move that closer to the window, we could catch some natural reverb.”

“Marco, you’re literally in a hospital bed.”

“And yet I’m still producing.”

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, but her lips curved into a smile anyway. “You’re gonna make the nurses hate us.”

He grinned. “Worth it.”

She shook her head and laughed quietly—a genuine laugh this time, light and fragile and real. It echoed faintly off the walls, brighter than the hospital’s fluorescent lights.

And for just a heartbeat, it didn’t feel like a hospital anymore.

It felt like the start of something—something that refused to die quietly.


Word spread quickly through the ward.By the second afternoon, everyone on the fifth floor knew about the boy with the guitar voice and the girl who refused to stop playing.

And little by little, their music began to change the rhythm of the hospital.

The nurses stopped outside Room 402 a bit longer each shift.One of them, Ate Myra, started bringing small things—a string of fairy lights, a fresh flower in a disposable cup, even a roll of masking tape to help secure cables along the floor.The janitor, Mang Bert, contributed next. He found an old pop filter in the storage room and taped it to the mic stand with surgical tape.Even the grumpy old man in the next room—Mr. Sison, who complained daily about the “noise”—was caught humming under his breath when he thought no one could hear.

By day three, the once-sterile room looked almost magical.The fairy lights framed the window. The IV pole was wrapped in paper cranes someone folded during the night shift.And in the middle of it all sat Ji-yoo and Marco, surrounded by cables, sound checks, and quiet determination.

Marco leaned into the mic, grinning weakly. “Not bad for a hospital tour.”

Ji-yoo rolled her eyes. “Don’t get used to it. The crowd’s mostly nurses and geriatrics.”

“Hey, I’ll take what I can get,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar spark of humor. “Besides, you should’ve seen Mr. Sison’s face when I hit that high note earlier.”

She smirked. “He almost called the nurse thinking your heart monitor went off.”

He laughed, and for a moment, the sound was pure sunlight.Then the laugh turned into a cough—violent, hacking, his hand clutching his chest.

“Hey, hey, breathe—” Ji-yoo said, rushing to his side. She steadied him with one hand, the other fumbling for tissues. “You okay? Talk to me, Marco.”

He took a shaky breath, the sound wet and uneven, before managing a weak grin. “If I die during this performance,” he rasped, “it’ll be the most metal way to go out.”

“Marco Reyes,” she scolded, wiping his mouth gently, “you are not dying until we finish the damn setlist.”

He raised a brow. “And after that?”

She paused. “…Then we renegotiate.”

He grinned, eyes glimmering. “Aye aye, captain.”

“God, you’re impossible,” she muttered, trying not to let her voice tremble. “How can you joke about this?”

“Because if I don’t,” he said quietly, “it starts to feel real.”

The silence that followed was heavy but tender. Ji-yoo reached over, adjusting his blanket, not trusting herself to speak.Outside, thunder rolled distantly, echoing through the walls.

After a long pause, Marco cleared his throat. “You know, this room’s starting to sound better every day.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“The echo,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “It bounces off the walls just right. Warm but raw. Kind of like us.”

“Warm but raw?” she repeated, smiling. “That’s a weird way to describe us.”

“Yeah, but it fits.” He smirked. “We’re a tragic indie duo with unresolved sexual tension.”

Ji-yoo’s cheeks went pink. “You’re delirious.”

“Maybe,” he said, still smiling. “But tell me I’m wrong.”

She tried to look annoyed. She failed spectacularly. “Shut up and drink your water.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They practiced every day in short bursts—twenty minutes at most, sometimes less if Marco got dizzy.Each time, Ji-yoo watched him push through pain that would’ve broken anyone else.Every breath he sang felt stolen, borrowed from something bigger than his body could contain.

Once, she caught him staring out the window during a break.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

He took a long moment before answering. “How strange it is that people keep breathing, even when everything hurts.”

Ji-yoo blinked. “That’s… morbidly poetic.”

“Hey, I’m a musician,” he said with a weak chuckle. “It’s my job.”

When they resumed, Marco insisted on recording new backing vocals for Still Here.He sat upright, pale but stubborn, the mic adjusted close to his lips.Ji-yoo hovered nearby, ready to stop him if his breathing worsened.

But once the track started rolling, something changed. His voice, fragile as tissue paper, carried a quiet conviction that made her throat ache.

“Still here,even when the sky forgets my name,still here,dancing in the static and the rain.”


Ji-yoo froze, her heart breaking in silence.When the last word faded, she realized she’d been crying. Not the loud kind—just slow, quiet tears that refused to stop.

Marco looked up at her, smiling softly. “Hey… don’t cry. It’s a happy song.”

“You’re a liar,” she whispered, wiping her face. “You wrote that about yourself.”

“Maybe.” His lips curved faintly. “But it sounds better when you sing it.”

She laughed through her tears, shaking her head. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Occupational hazard,” he said, sinking back against the pillows.

That night, Ji-yoo stayed late. Long after the nurses dimmed the lights, she was still there, cleaning cables and scribbling new notes on her lyric pad.The fairy lights reflected softly in Marco’s half-open eyes as he drifted between sleep and wakefulness.

“You should go home,” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” she said, not looking up.

“You haven’t slept properly in three days.”

She shrugged. “Neither have you.”

“Touché.”

The soft hum of machines filled the silence between them. Ji-yoo sat by his bedside, adjusting the volume knob, her fingers brushing the edge of his blanket.

“Hey, Ji?” he said suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks… for not giving up on me.”

She smiled without looking at him. “Don’t thank me yet. We still have to survive tomorrow.”

He chuckled weakly. “We will.”

But the truth lingered between them, unspoken.Hope was heavy.And Marco was running out of strength to carry it.


Night fell gently over the city.From the hospital window, the Manila skyline shimmered like a sea of dying stars, faint and distant. The rhythmic hum of machines filled the silence, each beep a fragile reminder that Marco was still here—that time hadn’t taken him yet.

Ji-yoo sat in the chair beside his bed, her knees tucked up, a worn notebook open in her lap. The pages were messy, ink-stained, and full of scribbles—setlists, lyric fragments, random doodles of keyboards and stars.Every time she looked at Marco sleeping, her pen slowed down, the weight of everything catching up to her.

It was almost midnight when he stirred.

“Ji?” His voice was groggy, fragile. “You still awake?”

She smiled faintly without looking up. “You think I sleep when you’re plotting death by microphone?”

He chuckled weakly. “That’s… fair.”

She put her pen down, turning toward him. “You need anything? Water? Oxygen? Sanity?”

“Just… company,” he said softly. “But I’ve already got that.”

The words landed between them like a heartbeat. She tried to laugh it off, but her throat tightened.

Marco watched her quietly for a moment before saying, “You ever think about what comes after all this?”

Ji-yoo blinked. “After the performance?”

He hesitated. “After… everything.”

She stared at him, her chest tightening. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “in case I—”

“Marco.” Her voice sharpened. “Don’t talk like that.”

He smiled sadly. “You always stop me when I start getting honest.”

She met his gaze, eyes trembling. “Because your honesty hurts.”

He took a shallow breath, wincing slightly. “Then let me be selfish just once.”

She waited.

“If something happens tomorrow,” he said, his tone quiet but unwavering, “I want you to finish the song.”

“What?”

He smiled faintly. “You heard me. Finish it. Even if I can’t.”

“Marco—”

“I mean it, Ji.” His voice cracked, but his eyes held steady. “You’ve carried me through more than you realize. If my body quits on me… don’t let that be the last thing people remember. Let them hear us.”

Her vision blurred. “You think I could ever do that without you?”

He reached for her hand, his grip weak but warm. “You already have.”

The room fell silent again. The machines beeped softly, a lullaby made of wires and willpower.

Finally, Ji-yoo nodded. Not because she agreed—but because she couldn’t find the words to argue.

He smiled, satisfied, and released her hand. “See? Knew you’d listen eventually.”

“You’re such an idiot,” she whispered, voice breaking.

“Yeah,” he said, chuckling faintly. “But I’m your idiot.”

Ji-yoo wiped her eyes and gave him a look halfway between a glare and a smile. “Try not to make me cry before the big day, okay?”

“No promises.”

She picked up her notebook again, forcing herself to breathe. Each word she wrote next felt like stitching something broken—temporary, imperfect, but necessary.At the top of the page, she wrote their setlist in neat, careful handwriting:

Her pen hovered above the final line. She hesitated, the ink smudging under her thumb, then slowly added one more entry beneath it:

For Marco. Always.


When she looked up again, Marco had already fallen asleep, a faint smile resting on his lips. His chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm, but it was enough. For now.

She leaned back in her chair, listening to the faint hum of the city beyond the glass. Somewhere out there, their fans were waiting—some who had followed Ji-yoo since her idol days, others who’d just discovered them online. Tomorrow, the world would hear their music for the first time.

It didn’t matter that the “stage” was a hospital room. It didn’t matter that half their gear was held together with tape and hope. What mattered was that they had made it here. Together.

She whispered into the quiet, almost like a prayer. “We’ll rise tomorrow, Marco. I promise.”

Outside, dawn was still hours away.But through the window, the first hint of light bled across the horizon—pale and uncertain, like a beginning that refused to end.

And for the first time in weeks, Ji-yoo allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

End of Episode 17—”We Still Rise”