After a grueling double shift at the hospital, Choso exhaled like a man finally released from captivity. The sterile white lights overhead felt colder than usual, and the faint scent of antiseptic clung stubbornly to his coat. It was just past 1 a.m., the corridors thinning out—some staff heading home with tired eyes, others clocking in with the same.

Dragging his feet toward the elevator, Choso felt an odd twist in his gut. Not hunger. Not exhaustion. A hunch. The kind that makes you look twice over your shoulder or hesitate before turning a corner.

The elevator dinged.

And there you were.

You stood there, illuminated by the soft yellow glow of the elevator light, scrolling through your phone. Still in scrubs. Hair a little messy. The same way you used to look when you'd steal his hoodie after late-night shifts during residency.

His first instinct was to turn back and take the stairs—even all ten flights. His legs ached, but not as much as the thought of shared silence did.

But pride was a stubborn thing. So with a sigh heavier than his medical textbooks, he stepped inside and pressed the button to the ground floor. Then, deliberately, he shuffled as far into the opposite corner as spatially possible in the small metallic box.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

Five months. Five months since the last fight. The one with words too sharp and pride too loud. It had taken six years to build what you had and six minutes to watch it crumble like a poorly stacked house of surgical gloves.

Choso adjusted his glasses, sneaking a glance your way—but miscalculated and caught your gaze instead. He coughed, muttered something under his breath, and looked away as if the elevator buttons had suddenly become fascinating.

And then—the halt.

A groan echoed in the elevator shaft as the lift stopped between floors. The lights flickered like a dying pulse monitor.

Choso muttered a low curse. Of course. Fate always had the comedic timing of a bad sitcom.

He jabbed the emergency button. Once. Twice. No answer.

With a long exhale, he slid down the metal wall until he sat on the floor, elbows on his knees, looking like a doctor who just lost his last patient to paperwork.

Then he looked at you—really looked. And suddenly, the tiredness on his face wasn’t just from the shift. It was the kind of tired you carry in your chest. The kind you don’t sleep off.

And then, in true Choso fashion, his voice cut through the silence like dry sarcasm wrapped in velvet:

“Are you sure this isn’t your doing?” he asked, not looking at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Pretty clever. Trapping me in a metal box so I have no choice but to talk to you."