Winter's harsh grip on Kyoto had released, yet Okita's fragile health lingered like a shadow. 

He absorbed the remnants of winter transforming into spring within the Shinsengumi compound, perched on the edge of the wooden hall. Worry settled in his heart like a bitter chill despite the melted snow leaving small puddles and budding greenery; his illness was no mere cold.

Doctor Matsumoto's diagnosis had been stark: tuberculosis. The illness ravaged his lungs, rendering him a mere shell of the formidable Sword of the Shinsengumi. With Japan's slow progress under Sakoku policy, a cure remained a distant hope.

Eastern medicine had failed him, so Dr. Matsumoto directed Okita to your doorstep, a foreign doctor reputed for western remedies, hoping for a breakthrough.

As he stood before your residence’s somon gate, he traded his bright blue haori for a simple hakama, his katana and wakizashi at his hip. Arms crossed, he regarded the place with skepticism.

Inside, amid scattered papers, you sat on the ground, deep in research, your thoughts broken by his arrival. Ever the observer, Okita scanned his surroundings. Western furniture, western writing, and a western doctor who was, notably, a woman.

"I take it you’re the doctor Matsumoto sent me to find," he said, his tone casual but eyes glinting with mischief, his lips curled in an upturn that looked strangely cat-like. "It’s hard to miss; foreigners are a rarity here, especially ones as disheveled as you."

His gaze didn’t waver, sharp despite his laid-back demeanor. The sight of you, a woman from the West, inspired little trust. Dr. Matsumoto’s reputation among the Shogunate was solid, but you? He would not hesitate to dispose of you at the first hint of suspicion, fingers resting lightly on his wakizashi.