Kyoya woke up to a bouncy Japanese pop song, a clue-in that Tamaki given him a call at the ungodly hour of 7 AM. Laying there, comfortably tucked beneath his covers, he wanted nothing more than to throw it against the wall to shut it up. Saturday mornings were his only breathing time, for Chrissake- couldn't this have waited? If this was about Haruhi again, he swore he was going to have an aneurysm.

Finally resigning himself to the reality of the situation, he plucked his phone off his nightstand and answered on its seventh ring. "Tamaki? Is something the matter? Really, you should know better than to disturb me at such a-"

"Mommy! Oh, thank God you're there!" Tamaki blubbered frantically. "Something has happened to Ayame!"

"Ayame?" he asked, his curiosity piqued. "What sort of thing?"

"From what Haruhi told me, she was attacked by this strange man last night. A man in the neighborhood found her there, almost unconscious, but the culprit ran away before he could apprehend him. She's in the hospital now."

But no further persuasion was required. Kyoya flung off his covers immediately, slipping into his shoes and striding to his bathroom. "I'm heading over there right away. I'll be there ASAP."

Hanging up on his friend, Kyoya heaved a sigh, only one thing on his mind.

Ayame.

He slipped into the hospital room, easing into a hard-backed chair just besides the hospital bed. "So, how is she?" he asked quietly, so as not to wake her up.

Ayame was a mess of bandages and casts, puffy with bruises and scrapes. He could barely stand to look at her like that, so small, so vulnerable, bathed in the light shining through the window. So unlike the vibrant girl he had seen just yesterday, kicking and screaming and living.

The nurse gave him a patronizing look, before heaving a sigh. "I wish I didn't have to say this, but not very good. Broken arm, dislocated shoulder, plenty of bruises, a nasty knife wound on her thigh...and that's disregarding the internal damage."

Just then, two police officers walked into the room, nodding curtly to the nurse. "We've just commenced investigation of the victim's house.

"And?" Kyoya snapped, drawing their attention before she could respond.

"And who would you be?" the taller of the men asked gruffly, a frown behind his bushy mustache. "Her boyfriend?"

He smiled calmly, forcing down the queasiness he felt at the thought. "No, just a friend of hers from Ouran Academy. My name is Kyoya Otori, the third son of the head of the Otori Corporation, Yoshio Otori. I believe I'm not mistaken when I say that this is one of our many hospital locations all over Japan." At the sight of the dubious look on the man's face, he sighed, pulling out his student identification. "Is this proof enough for you? I don't any sane person who would throw that name around lightly."

The man nodded hurriedly, flustered. "Um, yes, of course, Otori-san! I'm Fukunaga and this is my partner, Suzuki."

"So...what were the results of the investigation?" Kyoya asked once more, giving them a tight-lipped smile. "Forgive me for not catching them earlier."

"Several other officers are searching the area where the offender vanished last night at this very moment. Although the girl's father was...uncooperative, to say the least, we managed to be able to search her room," Suzuki said with a grimace.

"And?" Kyoya pressed, with a hint of impatience.

"In her desk drawer, we found a collection of old notes with pretty much the same messages." Fukunaga took a file out of his briefcase, hanging them to Kyoya. "It goes without saying, who they're from."

Accepting them with a from, he leafed through the photographs; they were of pieces of crinkled pink paper inscribed with cryptic messages. All in the same spidery handwriting and blood red ink. "We also discovered a box, filled with images of a mysterious blonde woman with green eyes. And, most interestingly, her son- a boy by the name of the Matthew Wilson."

"And you two believe that this is our culprit?" Kyoya tapped the file with his thumb.

"The witness said that the man had shaggy blonde hair and green eyes. This boy in the photo album fits the description perfectly," Fukunaga said, tugging the file out of his grip. "We've also researched the records of Marianna Rosalie Clambert, the woman who appeared in the album. She was reported missing from California about two decades ago, along with her son, who's our main suspect. The case wasn't investigated with much depth, but within ten years, they were pronounced legally dead. The relation between these two and Nakamura-san isn't known, but-"

"She has his eyes." Kyoya cut him off. "They're siblings. There's no other explanation for it."

"That's hardly enough evidence to make such a bold claim," Suzuki argued.

His patience was fast waning. "Whatever her relationship to him was, it's hardly relevant at the moment. You can leave such details to the detectives. Your prioirity is to find him as soon as possible," Kyoya snapped, waving a hand in the air. "It would not do us any good if we had a mad killer on the loose."

When the officers finally left, he sighed, slumping back in his chair. Gazing at Ayame, he reached a tentative out to her and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He turned to face to the nurse. "How long do you think she'll be unconscious?"

"It's too soon to say. She's just gone through a tremendous amount of hurt, both physically and mentally. God knows what she's been through," she said, her brow furrowing at the sight of his frown. "I assure you, we'll take excellent care of her. We have a reputation to uphold, no?"

"Oh, I have no doubt about that." He managed a lemony smile. "I hope you don't mind if I come here every now and then, just to monitor her progress. She's very precious to me, you know."

"No problem, Otori-san."

"Much appreciated."

The Host Club, minus Kyoya, who insisted that he had "business" to take care of, gathered in their sacred meeting place: Music Room #3.

"So how's Ayame-senpai?" Haruhi asked, before admitting, "I haven't visited her yet.

"So Aya-chan is still unconscious?" Honey asked tearfully, clutching Usa-chan closer to his chest. Mori gave him a comforting pat on his head as a form of silent consolation.

"Unfortunately, yes. From what Mommy told me, the doctors say that they might be calling it a coma now, he leader of the club began pacing feverishly across the pink-tiled floors, "and that they can't say for sure when she'll come to. And they say that she may have, may have been- emotionally damaged!"

Tamaki lost all of his composure in that instant, letting out a choking sob and slumping against the wall.

"So Aya-chan's not coming back for a long time?" Honey asked glumly, eyes cast to the ground.

"Yeah," Mori affirmed.

They lapsed into uncomfortable silence.

"Kyoya-senpai visits her a lot, doesn't he?" Haruhi said, tapping a finger against her chin. "I know he pretends not to care about her, but he really does."

"He's just as far-gone as she is," Kaoru sighed.

"None of us ever saw this coming," Hikaru said mournfully, shaking his head from side to side.

"You know, my lovely friends," Tamaki sighed, leaning his chin against his palm dejectedly. "Kyoya-kun has always been fond of Ayame-chan. I could see it from the very beginning, yes, even if he does all he can to hide the fact. Maybe that's the reason I wanted her to join the club in the first place. And now, look where it's got us all...Kyoya's hurt the most."

He paused dramatically, before wheeling out yet another one of his blackboards. "Which is why, gentlemen and lady, it's our sworn duty to get Ayame out of that stuffy coma and back to Ouran Academy, where she belongs. Who's with me?"

The twins gazed at Tamaki in awe, applauding enthusiastically.

Haruhi sighed, watching the scene of chaos unfold before her. In times of trial, some things just never seemed to change.

But sometimes, that could be a comforting fact.

Hikaru and Kaoru stormed into her hospital room, armed with a vast supply of feathers, loud instruments, and squeaky toys, all that were supposed to knock Ayame out of her coma in the flashiest way possible.

"Ayame-senpai!" the two chorused, waltzing to her bedside, Hikaru giving his trumpet a pathetic toot. He had quit playing the thing in middle school, but this was a perfect opportunity to brush up on his rather rusty skills. Kaoru gave a silver triangle a ding, letting out an enthusiastic hoot.

"What in the world are you two doing?" Kyoya arched an eyebrow at the two, glancing up from his book.

"What do you think we're doing?" Hikaru rolled his eyes, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Just like everyone else, we're putting in our best efforts to get Ayame-senpai to wake up."

"Kiss today good-bye, and point me toward tomorrow!" Kaoru warbled.

"Isn't that from Chorus Line?"

"Your point being?"

"How do you even know that she likes musicals?"

"She's a singer, isn't she? What singer doesn't like musicals?"

"Hm...the ones who sing trashy pop?"

"Huh. Touche."

Hoewever, despite the hell of a racket the twins were making, Ayame barely even stirred, remaining in her fitful sleep.

"By the way, senpai...shouldn't you be studying?" Kaoru frowned, using the same tone as a stern professor. "If I'm not mistaken, your finals are in two weeks!"

"I'm studying right here." Kyoya held up his French textbook, lips curling into a gaunt smile. "I'm very well-prepared, thank you very much. There's really no need to worry about me. Or Ayame, for that matter. She'll wake up when it's her time. No need to rush her." His eyes locked briefly on her, before flickering away.

"What are you thinking about now, senpai?" Kaoru asked tentatively, biting at his lip.

"Exactly what it looks like." He gave them a minty smile. "I'm studying irregular verbs. It's actually quite the endeavor."

Hikaru gave his twin a tap on the shoulder, muttering, "Come on, Kaoru. Let's just go. We're not needed here."

Kaoru looked like he wanted nothing more than to argue, but shut his mouth and allowed his brother to guide him out of the room, mission entirely abandoned. The look in Kyoya's eyes...it was so faded, so hollow.

He was waiting for her to wake up. Maybe even more so than themselves, or Honey-senpai, or even Tamaki.

Kyoya sighed once the two of them had exited the room, pressing his face into his palms. Why?

"Ayame," he said hesitantly, fully aware that he might as well have been conversing with a doorknob. But it had to be said. "I knew that you were something special the day that you walked into the classroom. You're so...unique. Eccentric, but in that extraordinary sort of way."

She remained asleep, eyelashes fluttering, but he continued, unable to stop that torrent of words from pouring out.

"When your father hit me that day, I realized just how strong you are. You're so incredibly brave, to have dealt with that your entire life. My problems are so petty compared to yours, but you never once complained. You smile instead, share your happiness with everyone around you. You listened to me, you sympathized, you understood. That was the greatest gift you ever could have given me. And because of you, I've learned how to appreciate the little things in life.

He took a deep breath, pressing her hand to his chest. "If you haven't done enough enough for me already, please...wake up. I love you."

Why were those last words so easy to say?

Because they were the honest-to-goodness truth.

He was in love with the commoner artist, the girl who so stubbornly refused to comply with anything he ever said and wasn't ever afraid of offending him; she never tip-toed around him, always treated him like a normal person, always laughed the loudest and never concerned herself with what anyone thought. She had never, ever strayed from her true self- a quality he couldn't help but immerse himself in, breathing in the scent of her, her, her.

A hand reached up to touch his face. "K-Kyoya? Is it really you?"

He startled, but was soon swamped by a wave of relief. "It's me. How are you feeling?" It was difficult to resist the temptation to gather her up in his arms, but she looked so fragile at that moment, vulnerable and quaking, as if she would break at the slightest touch.

"I don't...I don't...everything's my fault." She let out a choking sob, erupting into tears.

"Nothing's your fault," he said, helping her into a sitting position. Tentatively wrapping his arms around her, he allowed her to cry into his shoulder, gently stroking her hair.

"Everything's alright...you're gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay. Everything's gonna be okay."