The hospital was quiet again.
Not the eerie silence of night, but the kind of hush that settled between early morning shifts—when the world hadn't fully woken yet, and everyone moved like they were underwater.
Satoru Kojima sat on the edge of a narrow hospital bed, arm in a fresh sling, a bruise blooming purple along his cheekbone. His uniform jacket lay folded on the bedside table. Damp. Bloodstained. Again.
He winced as he tugged the sling tighter with his good hand. His ribs throbbed, his legs ached, and his jaw refused to close fully without a jolt of pain.
Still, he smiled a little.
It had been a good night.
He'd stopped the thief. Protected someone who needed it. That had to count for something.
The door creaked open.
"Are you kidding me."
Sayaka Nakamura—his nurse, ever sarcastic, ever tired-looking—stood in the doorway, holding a clipboard. She shut the door behind her with a sharp click.
"You were supposed to be off duty, Kojima."
"Technically," Satoru muttered, "I was just assisting. Observation shift."
"Observation doesn't include broken knuckles and another concussion."
He shrugged with his good arm. "Bad luck."
Sayaka crossed the room, placed the chart down with a thud, and snapped on a pair of gloves.
"I'm going to check your vitals," she said flatly, "and if your pulse is even thinking about being abnormal, I'm sedating you."
"You threaten everyone like that?"
"No," she said, placing a hand on his wrist. "Just the morons who keep showing up here like they're auditioning for martyrdom."
He didn't reply.
Silence stretched between them as she checked his blood pressure, temperature, the bruising around his shoulder. Her movements were brisk, practiced. But not unkind.
Finally, she stepped back and pulled off her gloves.
"You're lucky," she said. "Again."
"Guess I'm just built different."
"You're built like a vending machine that keeps taking punches and refuses to shut down."
"…I'll take that."
She sighed, rubbing her temple. "You ever gonna stop?"
Satoru's smile faded.
"No," he said. "Probably not."
Sayaka studied him for a long moment.
His face was pale. His eyes ringed with exhaustion. And yet—still—there was something stubborn burning behind them. Something steady. Unshakeable.
"You're a moron," she said.
"I've been called worse."
Sayaka turned away, writing something on his chart.
Then, after a beat, she spoke again—so quiet he almost missed it.
"And yet… you keep standing."
He looked at her. Smiled faintly.
"Because someone has to."
She didn't respond.
Just scribbled one last note, tore off the page, and tucked it into his file.
Then she paused.
"You're still an idiot," she muttered.
But she placed a sealed heat pack on his lap, softer than anything she'd said before.
Then she left.
---
Satoru sat there in the pale morning light, holding the warm pack in his hand.
His head hurt. His body ached. The sling was itchy.
But he smiled anyway.
Just a little.
Because someone had to.