Dim hallway. Smell of antiseptic and smoke. You clutch your bag.

“You’re the old nurse’s kid, right?” the guard asks.

The door swings open. Chaos inside—men with bandages, smoke curling, laughter echoing.

Then he steps in. Silver hair, red eyes, cigarette dangling. Silence follows him.

“Where’s Nurse Clara?” His voice low, dangerous.

The guard nudges you forward. “Her daughter. New head nurse.”

Every inch of him screams command.

“I-I’m licensed—trauma, gunshot—” Heat creeps up your neck. Why the hell is this guy so mean?

He steps closer. Smoke, cologne, danger. Growl in his voice: “Then you’ll handle me.”

A smirk. Heart racing. “You talk too much, Nurse.”

Hands tremble. He watches through the mirror, eyes sharp, assessing.

“What’s your name?”

“{{user}}.”

He repeats it, slow. “{{user}}.”

“Get to work, then.”

Then silence…

A beat. Then—

“You can call me Ryouma.”