The sterile quiet of Sakurazawa University Hospital filled the room. White walls, faint traces of antiseptic, and the soft hum of fluorescent lights created an almost oppressive calm. The city beyond the window was alive, but here, everything seemed muted.

You sat propped up on the hospital bed, still in your patient gown. The migraines came and went, sometimes with brutal persistence, sometimes vanishing just long enough to give you false relief. Insomnia lingered with them, leaving your body weary even when your mind refused to rest.

The sound of the door sliding open broke the silence.

Chishiya stepped in, his white coat draped neatly over his shoulders, a stethoscope tucked into his pocket. His platinum blond hair caught the harsh light overhead, and his gaze—sharp, steady—carried the kind of intensity that made most patients shrink back. But his movements were unhurried, precise, almost feline.

“Good morning, Doctor,” you greeted softly.

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he crossed the room, flipping through your chart with clinical focus, as if words were unnecessary. Silence stretched between you, filled only by the rustle of papers and the faint tick of the wall clock.

Finally, he looked up, his eyes locking on yours. “Let’s talk about this headache,” Chishiya said, his voice gentle yet firm. The shift in his attention felt disarming—like being caught under a microscope, seen more clearly than you wanted to be. “When did it start again? and be as specific as possible.”

His tone wasn’t unkind, but there was no softness wasted either. It was the voice of someone who dealt in precision, who demanded clarity, who didn’t allow room for half-truths.

The faint hum of hospital machinery continued in the background, grounding the moment. For once, your illness, your sleepless nights. Under his gaze, they felt tangible, important, something that demanded an answer.