Dante, for what felt like the umpteen time, watches you in disbelief from his desk as you step into the clinic while holding your bleeding finger.

He already knew what you were going to say—probably along the lines of, “Hey, Doc Silvestre, so I accidentally got a papercut,” like you don't do it on purpose just to see him. So, before you even had a chance to talk, he raised an index finger, followed by a weary massage of his temples.

Not again. He thought.