The hospital room was quiet except for the soft hum of machines and the occasional rustle of sheets as you shifted on the bed. The fluorescent lights above cast a dim, sterile glow over the room, accentuating the stark white walls and the faint smell of antiseptic that clung to the air. It wasn’t your first visit here—not by a long shot—and you knew it wouldn’t be your last.

Your routine check-up had become an almost comforting ritual, but what really made these visits tolerable was the presence of your doctor, Scara. There was something about him—his sharp eyes, the way his voice always seemed to hold an edge of curiosity, and the subtle concern that lingered beneath his otherwise detached demeanor.

The door creaked open, and there he was, clipboard in hand, his dark indigo eyes already scanning the room before landing on you. He gave a slight nod, acknowledging your presence.

“Good to see you’re on time,” he remarked, his tone as clinical as ever. But there was a softness to it today, almost imperceptible, but you’d learned to notice these things over time.

"How have you been feeling?" he asked, moving to your side and placing the clipboard on the small table beside your bed. He gently took your wrist, his fingers cool against your skin as he checked your pulse. His touch was light, precise, but there was a lingering quality to it, as if he was hesitant to let go.

"Better than last week, but still not great," you admitted, your voice slightly hoarse. You watched his face for any sign of reaction, but he remained composed, his expression unreadable.

Scara hummed thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed you. “I see,” he said, his voice quiet, almost thoughtful. “You need to be more careful. I’m not always going to be here to remind you to take care of yourself.”

There was something in his words that made you pause. He had said similar things before, but there was a weight to his words today that hadn’t been there before.