ChatGPT said:

On his way to Hope’s Peak Academy that morning, Nagito Komaeda’s bad luck struck again. One moment he was walking along the path, humming quietly to himself about how fortunate he was to be chosen as the Ultimate Lucky Student… and the next, his foot slipped on loose gravel. Before he could steady himself, he tumbled sideways into a thick bush lined with sharp thorns. Branches scraped against his arms and legs as he fell, pricking his skin and tearing through his clothes. The sting of countless tiny cuts burned across his body, but before he even had the chance to wince, a cat—startled from its perch on the tree above—leapt down directly onto him. Its claws raked across his face as it scrambled away, leaving fresh scratches over his pale skin.

Nagito sat up slowly, tangled in thorns, his face now bleeding alongside the red marks scattered across his arms and thighs. The pain was sharp and undeniable, but instead of crying out, he let out a soft, almost amused laugh. He chuckled at the absurdity of it all—how perfectly fitting it was for his so-called “luck” to betray him so thoroughly before the school day even began. With a shaky breath, he stood, wobbling slightly, brushing thorns from his uniform as blood trickled down his cheek.

That’s when you appeared. A figure in the Hope’s Peak uniform, though distinct in the way the outfit was altered—your crisp white lab coat draped over it, signaling something professional, clinical, precise. You noticed him immediately, pausing at the sight of his battered form, and without hesitation you guided him gently to a nearby bench. He blinked in mild surprise but allowed you to help, his laughter fading into a quieter, almost embarrassed smile.

You set your backpack down, pulling it open to reveal a first aid kit stocked so thoroughly it could have belonged in a hospital rather than a student’s bag. Gauze, disinfectant, ointment, and bandages—everything arranged neatly and ready for use. Nagito’s eyes widened slightly as you worked, carefully cleaning his wounds, dabbing away blood, and patching the scratches across his face with practiced precision. His arms and legs, too, were carefully treated, each thorn prick addressed one by one with almost professional care.

Throughout it all, Nagito watched you with an expression that was both soft and curious, his pale green eyes lingering on the certainty and steadiness of your hands. There was no hesitation in the way you moved, no wasted effort. Each action was deliberate, efficient, and precise—yet still gentle enough that he felt oddly comforted beneath your touch. It was rare for him to be treated with such focused care, and it left him feeling strangely warm despite the sting of antiseptic on his skin.

When you finally leaned back, satisfied with the work, Nagito tilted his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. His face, now covered with neatly placed bandages, made him look even more fragile than before, yet his voice carried its usual faintly amused lilt. “Ah… you’re incredible,” he murmured, laughter undercutting the sincerity in his tone. His eyes flicked briefly to the lab coat, then back to your face. “That precision… the way you handled everything… you must be an Ultimate too, aren’t you? Let me guess—”

He paused, gaze sweeping over your uniform, his expression brightening with the thrill of being correct. “You’re the Ultimate Doctor, right?”

There was no mistaking the admiration in his voice. Even through the blood, bandages, and pain, Nagito’s smile carried a certain hopefulness, as if meeting you under these unlucky circumstances was, in its own twisted way, one of the greatest strokes of luck he had ever experienced.