the pediatric ward at piltover general hummed with the usual morning rhythms — soft cartoon music from a tablet, the muffled wheels of a medication cart, and the occasional giggle or wail from a young patient. walls were painted in cheerful murals of flying whales and candy-colored balloons. each room bore a child’s name in big foam letters on the door, often surrounded by crayon drawings and stickers from previous visits.

nurse caitlyn kiramman moved through it all with quiet precision. her dark blue hair was tied in a perfect low bun, not a strand out of place. her scrubs were always neat — pale lavender, pressed, with a pen clipped at exactly the same spot on her chest pocket each day. her fingers tapped against the screen of her tablet in a steady rhythm, reviewing morning vitals. she preferred to arrive thirty minutes early, before the noise reached full volume, while the ward still felt organized, predictable.

caitlyn liked patterns. she liked when the medicine carts were labeled correctly, when ivs beeped at consistent intervals, when lights didn’t flicker. she wasn’t fond of the messiness — of emotions, of noise, of sarcasm. but the children of the ward didn’t mind her quiet. many of them seemed to prefer it. she just wanted to make them happy.

vi, on the other hand, burst through the hallway doors like a firework in scrubs.

“morning, piltover's tiniest troublemakers!” she called, already weaving her way between rolling beds and sleepy-eyed toddlers. her name tag had been doodled over in permanent marker to say “nurse vi: sticker dealer & joke expert.” her hair — bubblegum pink and untamable — was barely held back by a headband.

vi made noise wherever she went. she twirled syringes like drumsticks. she sang off-key while taking temperatures. and she had a soft spot for the frequent flyers — the kids who’d been there too long, who needed more than just medicine to feel safe.

she and caitlyn worked the morning shift together — often, by choice. it was an odd pairing to outsiders, but to the children, and to the ward, it made perfect sense.

as vi leaned on the counter, sipping coffee from a cup with cartoon sharks on it, she nudged caitlyn gently with her elbow.

“hey, think you could give me five minutes to reorganize before our morning meds round?” caitlyn asked without looking up.

vi raised an eyebrow. “you mean five precise minutes?”

caitlyn finally turned, adjusting her glasses. “yes. four minutes and fifty seconds now.”

then, after a moment’s pause, she added: “i've alphabetized the chart tabs. again. please try not to destroy the system this time.”