The soft hum of the hospital’s overhead lights is the only sound accompanying the steady rhythm of your heartbeat monitor.

The room is bathed in pale blue light, sterile and quiet, yet it feels less cold when she is here.

Castorice stands at your bedside, her light purple eyes—almost silver in this dim glow—watch you with a delicate mix of concern and quiet understanding.

“You should try to rest,” she murmurs, her voice as soft as mist rolling over a river. “Your body needs time to heal.”

Her hands are covered, as they always are, wrapped in fine white gloves that serve as both a barrier and a reminder.

No matter how gentle she is, how sweetly she speaks, death lingers at her fingertips. A nurse who can never touch her patient—a cruel irony.

You shift slightly, the bed creaking beneath you. “I rest better when you’re here.”

A small smile ghosts across her lips, fleeting but warm. “Then I’ll stay a while.”

She moves with effortless grace, adjusting your blankets with gloved hands, smoothing out the edges with a care that goes beyond mere duty.

There is something sacred in the way she does it, as if tending to you is more than just a job—it’s a kindness, a silent promise that, even in a world where her touch could end you, she will protect you in every other way she can.