From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL)-Chapter 699: The Road to Recovery (part one)

***This Chapter contains more medical terms and explanations. Feel free to skip it if you prefer.***

The doctor arrived not long after the nurse called him.

He was a middle-aged man with steady hands and a calm expression, the kind that did not rush his movements. Two nurses followed behind him, one checking the monitors while the other adjusted the IV line.

Micah lay still while they examined him.

The light above his bed was switched on, brighter this time. It made him squint.

"Micah," the doctor said gently, leaning slightly into his field of vision so he would not have to turn his head. "Can you hear me clearly?" 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Micah blinked once, then nodded faintly.

"Good. I’m going to ask you a few simple questions. Take your time."

The questions were basic at first. His name. The year. Where he was.

Micah answered slowly. His voice came out hoarse and thin, as if he had not spoken in years. Each sentence felt like he had to search for the words somewhere far away before bringing them forward. Sometimes he paused mid-thought, struggling to finish a simple phrase.

The doctor did not interrupt him. He waited patiently. Then came the physical checks.

"Can you squeeze my hand?"

Micah tried. His left hand responded weakly. The right remained still.

The doctor did not react outwardly, but he nodded slightly as if confirming something he already knew.

"Can you lift your right arm?"

Micah concentrated hard. His brow furrowed. He imagined his arm rising. Nothing happened. He felt heat gather behind his eyes.

"Alright," the doctor said evenly. "That’s okay. Don’t strain yourself."

They tested his legs next. The left moved a little under instruction. The right barely twitched.

Then the doctor moved his fingers slowly in front of Micah’s eyes.

"Tell me when you see my hand."

Micah watched the left side carefully.

"I see it."

The doctor shifted to the right.

Micah hesitated.

There was nothing there.

"I... I don’t," he admitted quietly.

The room fell very still.

Clyde stood beside the bed the entire time, silent, his posture rigid. He did not interrupt once, but his jaw had tightened gradually with every failed response.

When the examination was finally complete, the doctor stepped back and exhaled softly.

He nodded once, as if organising his thoughts, and then began to explain.

"When an acute subdural hematoma affects the parietal lobe," he said calmly, "the symptoms can be quite specific because of the important role that region of the brain plays."

He glanced at Micah briefly before continuing in a steady tone.

"The parietal lobe is responsible for integrating sensory information. It helps us understand touch, temperature, pain, and body position. It also plays a significant role in spatial awareness, how we perceive where our body is in relation to the world around us."

Clyde’s fingers slowly curled into fists at his sides.

"In Micah’s case," the doctor continued, "the bleeding and pressure occurred primarily over the left parietal region. Because the brain controls the opposite side of the body, this has resulted in neurological deficits on his right side."

Micah listened, but the words felt heavy. He understood fragments. Bleeding. Pressure. Left. Right.

"First," the doctor said carefully, "he is experiencing sensory disturbances. That includes numbness and reduced sensation on the right side of his body. He may have difficulty recognising touch or distinguishing temperature differences without looking."

Micah swallowed. That explained the emptiness in his right hand.

"Second, there is an issue with spatial awareness. He may not instinctively know where his right arm or leg is positioned unless he looks at it. This can make simple actions feel confusing or disorienting."

Micah’s chest tightened slightly.

That was exactly what it felt like, as if his limb had disappeared unless he forced himself to check.

"Third," the doctor continued, "motor function has been affected. There is weakness and reduced coordination on the right side. This is why he is unable to lift his arm properly. It is not paralysis in the complete sense, but the neural pathways are currently impaired."

Clyde’s breathing grew slower and heavier.

"There may also be difficulty planning and executing movements. For example, grasping objects, holding utensils, buttoning a shirt, tasks that require coordination between sensation and motion, may feel unusually difficult."

Clyde stared at Micah. The thought of him not being able to hold a fork felt strangely devastating.

The doctor went on.

"The parietal lobe also contributes to mathematical processing and spatial reasoning. He may temporarily experience difficulty with calculations or understanding spatial relationships, like judging distance, depth, or orientation."

"Additionally," the doctor said, choosing his words carefully, "while the parietal lobe is not the primary language centre, it connects with regions responsible for comprehension and expression. As a result, he may have trouble organising complex thoughts or articulating himself clearly."

"Regarding vision," the doctor continued, "the visual processing centres connect through this region. The injury has caused what we call hemispatial neglect. This means he may fail to perceive objects on the right side of his visual field, even though the eyes themselves are intact."

Clyde finally spoke, his voice low. "So he’s not blind."

"No," the doctor replied immediately. "His eyes are functioning. The issue lies in how the brain is interpreting visual input from that side."

Clyde nodded once.

The doctor folded his hands in front of him.

"In terms of speech, Micah is able to speak. That is a positive sign. However, cognitive processing may be slower for now. He might struggle to express thoughts fluently, especially when fatigued."

Micah felt exposed hearing all of it spoken aloud.

"As for eating," the doctor added, "coordination issues and sensory deficits can make swallowing or handling utensils more challenging at first. We will monitor him closely. A speech and swallowing specialist will evaluate him if needed. A modified diet may be recommended temporarily."

Silence fell over the room when the explanation ended. Heavy and thick.

Micah felt like he was underwater, hearing everything but not fully grasping the weight.

Clyde, however, understood. Micah could see it in his face.

Clyde’s jaw tightened. His fists clenched until his knuckles paled. After a moment, he forced his hands to relax and reached for the wooden prayer beads wrapped around his wrist. His thumb moved over them slowly, grounding himself.

The doctor noticed the tension. He softened his tone.

"With the right rehabilitation," he said firmly, "the likelihood of significant, even full, recovery increases substantially."

Clyde’s eyes lifted.

"Micah is young," the doctor continued. "Neuroplasticity at his age works strongly in his favour. The surgery was performed within four hours of the accident. That early intervention prevented prolonged pressure on the brain."

He gave a reassuring nod.

"Physical therapy and occupational therapy will be essential. He will need consistent rehabilitation to retrain the affected neural pathways. Progress may feel slow at times, but improvement is highly possible."

"How long?" Clyde asked quietly.

"It varies," the doctor admitted. "Weeks to months. But early signs are encouraging. He is conscious. He is responsive. Those are strong indicators."

Clyde exhaled slowly.

"His chances of recovery are good," the doctor concluded.

That was the sentence Clyde held onto. He nodded once. "Thank you."

The medical team adjusted a few final settings and then left the room quietly.

When the door closed behind them, the room felt much larger. And much emptier.

The clock on the wall read 2:03 AM. Outside, the hospital hallway was silent.

Clyde pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down on Micah’s left side, the side he could see and feel properly.

"Your family came," Clyde said softly after a moment. "Everyone has been worried about you for the past few days."

Micah blinked slowly. He had been drifting in and out for a few days.

"Your mum and Darcy are in the side room," Clyde continued. "They refused to leave the hospital."

He hesitated. "Do you want me to wake them?"

Micah took a slow breath. Speaking still felt like dragging words through thick mud.

"No," he said finally, his voice rough and fragile. "Let them be."

He paused, gathering strength. "You should rest too."

Clyde gave a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

Instead of leaving, he leaned closer and gently brushed his fingers along Micah’s cheek. The touch was slow, soothing.

"I’m fine," Clyde murmured.

Micah closed his eyes.

His mind was crowded with fear and confusion, the doctor’s words echoing over and over. Numbness. Weakness. Rehabilitation. Months.

But he could not organize the thoughts. They spun without forming a clear line.

Clyde’s hand continued to move lightly against his skin, steady and warm.

"Sleep," Clyde whispered. His voice was low and certain. "Everything will be fine."

Micah did not know if that was true. But the calm in Clyde’s tone wrapped around him like a blanket.

The beeping machine kept its steady rhythm. And slowly, with Clyde still beside him, Micah drifted back into sleep.