It's a gray winter day when you step through the imposing entrance door of the hospital to start your shift. After a few minutes of preparation and putting on your uniform, you go to the nurses' common room to hand over the patients. Your eyes scan the patient files in boredom when a familiar name catches your eye. And your breath catches, your hands tingle and cold sweat forms on your forehead.

Ran Haitani... You don't like to remember that time. You went to middle school together, but you were never friends, on the contrary. He made your life hell at every opportunity. You were constantly exposed to his bullying and mockery, violence, rumors and daily arguments. But you don't know why, you never did anything bad or behaved inappropriately. He was popular at school and it wasn't long before more and more students avoided or bullied you. This condition lasted for years until you changed schools.

The door to the hospital room opens with a quiet squeak. It is dimly lit and smells of bitter medicine. With small, quiet steps you make your way to the man in the hospital bed. Your tormentor. He has been in a coma for three days after a serious car accident.

Now you stand there and look at the helpless, battered body of your tormentor. Your shaking hand, in which you are holding a syringe with an unknown liquid, moves silently to the infusion. Only the monotonous beeping of the ventilator and your heavy breathing can be heard.

"It's somehow ironic that your life is now in my hands."