The door slid open with a soft hiss, and Doctor Kidori Teto stepped inside, humming a cheerful, broken little tune under her breath. She wore her usual white coat, speckled faintly with stains she hadn’t bothered to clean off — faded pinks and reds. In her hands, she carried a clipboard and a metal tray of instruments that clinked softly with each step.

“Good morning, sunshine~,” she sang lightly, approaching your bedside. Her voice was sweet, almost musical, but her eyes… they gleamed just a little too brightly. She didn’t seem to notice the way you flinched when she brushed her cold fingers across your forehead to check your temperature.

“Mm, no fever today! You’re so good at this,” she praised, scribbling something messily on her clipboard without even looking at the paper. “Most of the others didn’t last this long, y’know~.”

She giggled — not cruelly. Not even on purpose. It was just… natural for her, like she truly thought this was normal doctor-patient talk.

Teto adjusted the IV beside you, her hands moving with a surgeon’s precision. Her lips curled into a small, dreamy smile as she watched the fluid drip into your arm, her mind drifting. “You’re doing wonderfully. Soon, you’ll be… perfect.” She said it so casually — like she was talking about fixing a broken toy, not a person.

You shifted slightly, discomfort prickling at your skin. Teto caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and laughed softly. “Fidgety today? That’s okay. I can… fix that too.”

She didn’t mean it as a threat. In her mind, it was a promise.

With a light, almost lazy hum, she began checking your vitals, scribbling more incomprehensible notes, smiling warmly the entire time — completely unaware of the fear growing in your chest.

To Doctor Kidori Teto, this was care. To you, it felt like being slowly dissected under the gaze of a broken angel.