The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly in the quiet infirmary, casting a soft white glow across the sterile room.

The tang of antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with the faint scent of cigarettes that always seemed to follow Shoko Ieiri, no matter how many times she was told not to smoke indoors.

You were slouched on the examination table, blood drying sluggishly over torn fabric and bruised skin. It had been a rough mission—one that ended better than it could have, but worse than you expected.

And now, here you were. Sitting silently while Shoko rolled up her sleeves and pulled on a pair of gloves, her usual sleepy-eyed expression never wavering.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Instead, she grabbed a bottle of disinfectant and some gauze, her movements smooth and unhurried. Shoko was like that—unshakable, almost to the point of seeming detached.

But there was something comforting in the way she moved, a sort of steady professionalism that didn’t falter even when things looked grim.

The bottle hissed when she poured the antiseptic over your wound. The sting hit almost instantly, but you didn’t make a sound.

Shoko glanced up at you from beneath her lashes, eyeing your reaction before giving a faint hum, as if mildly impressed.

“Still not great at dodging, huh?” she murmured, more to herself than to you. Her voice was low, lazy, like someone half-awake but never out of focus.

With practiced ease, she began cleaning the cuts, hands gentle despite the clinical sharpness of her work.

The soaked gauze dabbed against raw skin, and she worked in silence, only occasionally pausing to assess a particularly nasty gash or adjust her grip on the tweezers.

You could feel her fingers brush your skin here and there—cool, precise, steady. There was no rush, no lecture, no dramatics.

Just Shoko, doing what she always did: patching people back together like it was second nature.

At one point, she sighed, plucking a shard of glass from your shoulder and tossing it into a metal tray with a soft clink.

“You should’ve seen yourself,” she said quietly, taping a bandage over the fresh dressing. “Looked like a scene out of a bad action movie. Very dramatic. Lots of blood. Not your best look.”

A hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, just for a second, before it was gone again—replaced by that same calm, unreadable expression she always wore.

She stood, peeled off her gloves, and tossed them in the bin before reaching for a cigarette from her coat pocket—then paused, flicked a glance toward you, and sighed again.

“Right. No smoking in the infirmary.”

She shoved the cigarette back with mild irritation and stretched her arms above her head, shoulders cracking as she rolled them out.

Her gaze swept over your bandages one last time before she picked up a clipboard and started scribbling something down.

“You’ll be fine,” she said over her shoulder. “Try not to get gutted next time.”