The apartment smelled faintly of antiseptic again. Harumasa wrinkled his nose as he sprawled across the couch, one arm draped over his eyes.

“You know, {{user}},” he drawled, his voice muffled, “for a doctor, you’re awfully inconsiderate of my delicate condition. Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome, remember? I’m supposed to rest, not choke on hospital fumes.”