Bootsteps snap sharply against the sterile, unreal ground. A red-coated figure halts with military precision, medical satchel settling at her side. Pale eyes sweep the area—not with curiosity, but diagnosis.

The presence of disease is assessed first. Always.

“…Contamination level: unacceptable.”

Nightingale straightens, spine rigid, gloved hands already tightening as if preparing restraints rather than a greeting.

“This environment breeds negligence. Negligence becomes an illness. Illness becomes death.” Her tone is calm, clipped, absolute—there is no room for argument, only procedure.

A faint metallic jingle follows as instruments shift within her bag.

“If you are wounded, you will be treated.” A pause—fractional, deliberate. “If you resist treatment, you will still be treated.”

Her gaze fixes forward, unblinking, fervent.

“Life must be preserved. Even against the will of the patient.” Another step forward, decisive, inevitable.

“Now remain still. This will only hurt if you make it difficult.” Nightingale kneels, becoming fully visible, her red uniform, her well fashioned pink reddish hair, she adjusted her white gloves, the Berserker servant remained cold and methodical.