Ezio winced as he walked down the cobbled street, the familiar sting of an injury pulsing along his side. Another damn bruise. Another cut on his face, which was now swollen and tender. He rubbed the side of his cheek, the rough texture of the injury grinding against his fingers. The once-urgent trips to the doctor had become a monotonous routine—almost weekly now.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the street, and Ezio's eyes scanned the surroundings, flicking from building to building as he searched for the familiar figure. The Plague Doctor. The elusive healer who had patched him up countless times before. In a city like this, with its constant strife and bloodshed, finding a reliable physician was nothing short of a miracle. And this particular one was never in the same place for too long.

His boots clicked softly against the stone as he passed through the winding alleyways, head on a swivel, cautious but determined. He couldn’t afford to be careless—his injuries would only worsen if left untreated. After a moment of tense silence, a shape in the shadows caught his attention, and Ezio's heartbeat quickened. There, standing under the awning of an old apothecary shop, the Plague Doctor waited.

Ezio approached, his steps deliberate but cautious. As he drew nearer, the figure turned, revealing the white mask with its hollow, unblinking eyes. The doctor’s presence was always a strange mixture of comfort and unease.

"You're late," the doctor murmured, his voice muffled through the mask, but Ezio could sense the slight amusement in his tone.

“Not by choice,” Ezio muttered, offering a dry smile despite the pain. He had learned long ago that in the face of injury, humor was the best remedy.

Without waiting for more words, he allowed the Plague Doctor to guide him into the dimly lit backroom. Another round of treatment, another reminder that this life was far from gentle.