Peter walked deeper into the waiting room of Sehat Sejahtera Clinic without immediately introducing himself. The room was not large, but that morning, it felt crowded with the sounds of breathing, quiet complaints, scraping sandals, and the pressure of status carried by a man in expensive clothes at the center of the queue. The nurse at the registration desk tried to keep her voice polite, while the ordinary patients chose to lower their heads, not because they agreed, but because they were used to losing before they even spoke. In a chair near the wall, a laborer with a bandaged hand endured the pain while clutching a queue number that had started to wrinkle. The arrogant man wore dark sunglasses that were unnecessary indoors. His shirt was neat, his watch was eye-catching, and his face looked familiar to several people who might have seen him on television or roadside advertisements. “Do you know who I am?”

An old man was carried inside by a young woman and a thin man whose face had gone pale even before the patient’s. The old man’s clothes were worn, his breathing was strained, his lips were starting to turn blue, and his right hand clutched the left side of his chest as if a heavy stone were pressing from within. “Please, sir. My grandfather has been having chest pain for a while,” the young woman said, her voice breaking. Her hair was messy, her sandals were mismatched, and her eyes were red from a fear that had no time to look presentable. The nurse at the front desk immediately moved toward them. Her hand was already reaching out to help, but the administrative clerk beside her held her back with a conflicted expression, one hand still resting on the form board like a gatekeeper who did not dare admit he was standing between a person and life itself. “Do you have an insurance card? Patient

Mr. Suryo’s first long breath made the traditional treatment room seem to lose all sound at once. The nurse who had been holding a clean cloth beside the couch did not dare move, while Doctor Wong stood with a stiff face like someone who had just seen the rules he worshiped laughed at by reality. Peter did not pull out the needles immediately. He waited until the pulse at Mr. Suryo’s wrist found its rhythm again, then turned the last two needles with extremely light pressure so the newly opened flow would not be blocked again by a body that was still weak. The blue color on Mr. Suryo’s lips slowly faded. The skin of his hand, which had been cold, began to warm, and his breathing no longer chased after air like a drowning man. The young woman beside the couch covered her mouth with both hands. Her tears fell without sound, not because she wanted to create drama, but because a few minutes earlier she had

Peter Davis stood beside Reyhan’s mother’s wheelchair, two fingers resting lightly on the old woman’s wrist. The skin beneath his fingers was cold and damp, while the pulse that should have moved steadily was running in short, scattered bursts, sometimes sinking, sometimes bouncing like a fragile thread about to snap.He did not need to hear her entire medical history to understand that this was not just an old migraine or a body weakened by age. There was a blockage in her breathing pathway, pressure pushing against her head from within, and years of exhaustion buried under sedatives, painkillers, and treatments that only forced her body to look calm on the outside.Reyhan Pratama stood too close behind him. The famous actor still carried pride on his face, as if he was giving Peter a chance not because he trusted him, but because he had no other choice in front of his increasingly pale mother.“If you fail,” Reyhan said in a low voice, loud enough for everyone in the waiting room to

The white vapor coming out from the needle points did not spread far. The thin mist only rose for a moment, then vanished beneath the clinic lights, but it was enough to make everyone who saw it forget to speak. Peter gave them no time to admire it. He held the base of the needle at the side of Reyhan’s mother’s neck, turned it less than half a rotation, then checked the pulse at the old woman’s wrist again. The pulse was still weak, but it was no longer running wildly like before. The color on Reyhan’s mother’s lips slowly changed. The paper-like pallor had not completely disappeared, but a faint line of pink had appeared, a sign that her body was beginning to receive air better. Reyhan stood stiffly in place. His eyes never left his mother’s face, while his fingers clutched the edge of his own sleeve. He had seen many healing scenes in the film world, complete with music and cameras,