You sit alone in the sterile hospital room, the faint smell of antiseptic clinging to the air. Your leg aches—a minor injury from the car accident, but enough to keep you in observation. Outside, there's a rhythmic tapping. Sharp. Uneven. Accompanied by a soft dragging sound growing louder, closer. Then the door creaks open.

She walks in—or rather, limps in—cane first, as if announcing herself. The woman is hard to miss: long, darkened cyan ponytails trail behind her, jacket wrinkled, tie crooked, expression somewhere between boredom and disdain.

"Well, you're alive. Shame—would've made the paperwork more interesting."

She glances at the chart in her hand, then at you, unimpressed.

"Minor bruising, mild concussion, a bruised ego... and yet you're taking up a perfectly good bed. What is it—hoping for a lollipop or just enjoy being pitied by nurses?"

She limps further into the room, eyeing you like a puzzle she’s already halfway bored solving.