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2 weeks ago:
He is not a believer, and he has no reason to be. The only reason he is still alive is because he didn’t close the door properly when he decided to swallow a bottle full of pills. This was his third attempt in two years, and by now his family didn’t even bother to visit him in the hospital.
It’s disappointing how his life turned out. Two years ago, he had been on the verge of beginning it. He had recently married his high school sweetheart, Rika-chan. He had just started his junior residency in neurology. For the first time, something in his life had begun to make sense.
Now he was about to be committed to a psychiatric ward, waiting for a doctor to evaluate him and give him something to sleep. He was incapable of sleeping without dreaming about the day he lost everything. The images came back every night: Rika being wheeled into the ER after a car accident that had left her unrecognizable, the doctors declaring her brain-dead, the damage to her brain impossible to operate on.
Just as he began to believe that he was about to be committed for life, a man with white hair and striking blue eyes entered the room.
He introduced himself as Satoru Gojo.
Even though it was the first time they had ever met, Yuta felt strangely relieved by the presence of that unfamiliar man.
The conversation began casually, with Gojo doing most of the talking and explaining the reason he was there. He introduced himself as a distant cousin and the director of the Tokyo Tech Hospital Surgical Residency Program. Apparently, he had heard about Yuta’s situation through some connections in the neurology department.
According to Gojo, Yuta had quite the reputation: a promising young scholar who had graduated from the most competitive medical school in the country, glowing reviews from renowned neuroscience researchers, and an impressive understanding of neurological diseases.
Which was why Gojo found it strange that someone with such potential had chosen to abandon a competitive research career for a neurology residency in an ordinary hospital in Sendai.
Yuta couldn’t answer that question.
He knew the answer. He knew the reasons behind every decision he had made. But at that moment he was incapable of forming a coherent explanation without breaking down.
Satoru Gojo watched him quietly as he tried to wipe away his tears, failing miserably with his hands restrained to the bed.
Gojo continued as if the silence itself had already answered him.
Even though Yuta had lost his residency, and even though his relationship with his family had been strained long before Rika’s accident, Gojo said he was here to offer him a choice.
Yuta could leave this place and take a chance in his neurosurgery program. Or he could stay here, be committed, and slowly lose himself in medication.
Yuta almost choked when he heard the offer, convinced it had to be some kind of cruel joke. But when he looked up, Satoru Gojo’s expression was completely serious.
In his wildest dreams, Yuta had never imagined becoming a surgeon. For starters, he didn’t believe he had the character, or the strength to become one.
He had already failed as a husband, as a son, and as a researcher. He was weak enough to try to leave this world on the anniversary of Rika’s accident, desperate to escape the decision that haunted him every day: whether to unplug her or continue waiting for a miracle he knew would never come.
But at this point he was tired of feeling empty.
Maybe there was a reason why one of the best neurosurgeons in the world had appeared in front of him.
But the real question was this:
Was he ready to start believing?
Present:
Yuta woke with a sharp, rattling breath, the same dream clinging to him. Rika’s accident. The flashing ambulance lights, the sterile, choking smell of the ER, the calm, rehearsed voice of a doctor explaining brain death—those words still echoed in his mind, a relentless drum in his chest.
The memory made his stomach twist, tight and unyielding, even as he forced himself to eat a few bites of dry toast. He didn’t want to be weak on his first day. He didn’t want his stomach growling in front of the hospital and making him look like a kid who didn’t belong.
Changing into the softest, loosest clothes he owned—almost like pajamas—Yuta tried to anchor himself in something familiar, something safe. His hair was still mussed from sleep, dark strands sticking out unevenly. He could feel the tension in his shoulders and the weight of his chest, the two-year-old cold grief pressing down as if moving to Tokyo had changed nothing.
The hospital itself was a monstrous, glinting thing, glass walls reflecting the morning sun and everything about it modern, precise, intimidating. Yuta froze at the entrance, his breath catching. Gojo was already there, hands in his pockets, grin wide and eyes sparkling with uncontainable mischief.
“Yo, Yuta!” Gojo called, waving. “Interesting fashion choice for your first day. Planning to operate or just nap in the staff lounge?”
Yuta flushed and bowed, awkward. “I...I just thought...”
“Relax men” Gojo said lightly, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m kidding. Scrubs soon anyway.”
The tour was a blur. Wide, glass-lined hallways, nurses and doctors moving with quiet efficiency, monitors beeping like the rhythm of some living organism. Finally, they arrived at the locker room, and Gojo handed him a locker, a folded set of scrubs, and an ID card.
“Welcome to Tokyo Technology Hospital,” Gojo said, voice warm and teasing. “Junior residency program. Try not to get yourself killed in the first hour.”
Then the doors to the ER opened, and the noise hit like a tidal wave. Monitors screamed, nurses hustled, doctors barked orders, and stretchers rattled past. Yuta’s stomach dropped. The sheer chaos of it pressed down on him.
A sudden alarm cut through the cacophony. A patient was in cardiac arrest. Gojo tilted his head toward the bed. “Go”
Yuta’s feet moved before his brain could catch up. His hands trembled, knees weak. “I—I need help!” he shouted, panic bleeding through his voice.
Then three people appeared like shadows. A girl with a dark green ponytail, sharp eyes behind thin lenses, shoved him aside. “Move!"
A massive figure, resembling a Panda, moved the defibrillator into place with great precision. The blond student, Toge, quiet and composed, prepped the intubation kit, his pale hair falling in a soft curtain over eyes.
“Charging” Panda announced.
“Clear!” The shock jolted the patient, flatlined again.
“Again!” The girl barked, already back on compressions.
Minutes passed. Then—pulse. The coordinated calm of the team, the efficiency of their movements, and the snap decisions of someone who had been in this moment too many times flooded the ER.
Yuta’s chest heaved, adrenaline churning with terror.
“Well dear students let me introduce you to Okkotsu Yuta, the new first year resident and a new member of your residency team. Please show some love!” As Satoru finished his introduction the other students were looking at each other and talking between them with glances, and they looked at Satoru with a murderous gaze
“Gojo-sensei, you’re so irresponsible for letting a newbie walk around the ER. He’s useless at this point” the girl said sharply, while the others around her muttered agreements, their expressions a mix of exasperation and amusement.
Gojo clapped his hands together once more, clearly enjoying himself. “Since we’re all here” he said, grinning, “let’s do proper introductions” He gestured toward the blond student first.
“This is Inumaki Toge. He’s focusing on ENT surgery and plans to specialize in it after residency”
“Hi,” Toge said with a small nod, his calm demeanor contrasting the chaos around him.
Gojo then pointed to the girl who had led the code. “Zenin Maki. Strong interest in general surgery and one of the best trauma responders in the program.” He grinned again. “As for her future specialization… that is confidential”
Maki rolled her eyes but said nothing, her posture rigid, the faint twitch in her fingers betraying the impatience simmering beneath her calm exterior.
Next, Gojo gestured toward the towering figure beside her. “And this is Panda. He’s planning on going into pediatric surgery”
“Nice to meet you!” Panda said cheerfully, waving in a way that seemed almost too relaxed for the intensity of the environment.
Finally, Gojo placed a hand on Yuta’s shoulder. “And last but not least—Okkotsu Yuta. He’s part of the dual residency and neural specialization program,” Gojo announced, his smile widening. “Directed personally by yours truly.”
The room went quiet for a moment. Three pairs of eyes turned toward Yuta, scrutinizing him.
Maki crossed her arms, expression flat. “So” she said, “that still doesn’t explain why you let a brand-new resident wander into a code”
Gojo shrugged casually. “Good learning opportunity”
Maki’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Yuta could see the tight tension in her shoulders—the type of irritation that warned she was dangerously close to snapping. “Anyway,” Gojo continued quickly “Yuta will shadow Maki while he gets familiar with the program and the ER. Panda and Toge, you two are covering post-op rounds.”
“Got it” Panda said.
“Sure” Inumaki agreed quietly.
Maki clicked her tongue, expression openly disgusted. Yuta felt his stomach drop. First day, and he was already the problem.
As the group began to disperse, Yuta hesitated before following Maki, gathering the courage to speak. But she was quicker.
“You’re a quitter, right?”
Yuta froze. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut straight through him, sharp and precise.
He stared at her, startled and a little terrified.
Maki glanced back at him, eyes cold and calculating. She adjusted her lenses, a subtle gesture of impatience, as if merely standing there was an offense. “Just looking at you right now, I can tell. If you were smart, you’d do everyone a favor and leave”
Yuta felt the words hit him like a physical blow, his shoulders sinking involuntarily.
“But since you’re part of Gojo-sensei’s special program,” she continued, her gaze hardening, “I guess that won’t happen any time soon. I’m not going to babysit you. And I don’t care about getting to know someone who’s just going to quit”
“Maki…” Panda began quietly.
“Stop” Toge said, frowning.
But Maki had already turned away. “I’m busy” she said flatly, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve got things to do”
And just like that, she walked off. Yuta stood there, staring at the floor, his chest tight.
Was he really that obvious?
Had everyone already figured him out?
“Hey… don’t take that too seriously,” Panda said gently, stepping closer. He scratched the back of his head awkwardly, his easy-going personality a stark contrast to Maki’s sharpness. “She’s not supposed to terrorize new residents like that. Starting residency is stressful enough.”
The day went from bad to worse. Maki’s warning about not going easy had been more than just words. She moved briskly through the surgical corridors, outlining the hierarchy of the hospital with precision.
“As residents, we’re at the bottom of the pyramid” she said, not looking back. “We’re nobodies. And that means we’re expected to be everywhere”
Yuta hurried behind her, struggling to match her long, confident strides. Every motion she made seemed purposeful, almost predatory, and he was acutely aware of his own clumsiness.
“OR one through ten. Equipment storage is over there. Supply room’s at the end of the hall. If something’s missing during surgery and you’re the closest resident, congratulations—you’re the one running for it” Maki continued, moving so fast he had to keep glancing at her just to keep up.
“Okay… Zenin-san?” Yuta said carefully. She stopped suddenly and turned slowly, piercing him with her gaze.
“Don’t use my last name,” she snapped.
Yuta blinked. “Oh...okay.”
He hesitated, voice barely audible. “So… when do we start getting OR experience?”
Maki stared at him like he had asked the dumbest question imaginable. “You’re delusional if you think it’s that easy. You earn the right to be in an OR. Right now, you’re just wasting space.” Yuta’s shoulders sank as they continued through several hallways, past operating rooms, supply closets, and equipment stations, until they finally reached the on-call rooms. Maki pushed the door open.
“You rest here when you can,” she said. The room was small but functional—two narrow beds, lockers, and a desk buried under paperwork. She pointed at the beds. “But don’t you dare leave dirty clothes lying around,” she added. “And don’t walk around naked. If I catch you doing that, I’ll make you regret it.”
Yuta looked genuinely confused. “Why… would I be naked?”
Maki ignored him completely and walked out, continuing her instructions down the hall. “Always answer your beeper. Stay updated on every case you’re assigned to”
He nodded quickly, glancing at the clock. It was already late. “Uh… Maki-san? Aren’t we supposed to start leaving soon?”
She stopped so abruptly he nearly collided with her. Her dark glare made his stomach knot. “You idiot, spoiled brat. You don’t leave until every patient is stable, the reports are updated, and coverage is arranged”
Yuta immediately bowed his head. “I’m sorry”
Without another word, she turned and led him back to the ER. The pace picked up immediately. “Alright,” she said, grabbing a tablet and scanning the patient list. “We’re checking consults and labs. Okkotsu—room twelve. Stool sample.”
“Yes!” Yuta responded, trying to sound confident.
“Room nine. Blood draw”
“Right!”
“Room fourteen needs a prostate exam”
Yuta froze. “…Understood”
“Room seven—bloody diarrhea case. Again”
Yuta nodded weakly.
“And stop standing around,” Maki added without looking up. “The nurses are waiting for you to actually do something”
By the time Yuta finished his third sample collection, he was exhausted, sweaty, and certain his dignity had been left somewhere in the hospital plumbing.
He had barely begun to catch his breath when a nurse waved him over. “Doctor, we need someone to look at this”
Yuta hesitated. A patient sat on one of the beds—an elderly woman holding a towel wrapped tightly around her forearm. Blood had already soaked through the fabric.
“Hello, Mrs. Tao,” he said nervously.
She removed the towel without ceremony, revealing a deep, jagged cut. Blood still flowed slowly. His hands shook as he fumbled with the gauze.
“There’s a lot of blood” she muttered, eyeing him critically.
His expression betrayed his panic, and she narrowed her eyes. “You don’t look very confident, young man”
“Everything is going to be fine,” he said quickly. “I will… uh…”
She sighed. “Boy, I’ve been waiting here for hours. I’m going to bleed out if you don’t do something”
A nearby nurse glanced over. “You’ll be fine, Mrs. Tao. If you were going to bleed out, you’d have done it already”
Yuta looked between them, panic rising. “I—I’ll find someone” he said. “Just wait a second”
“Don’t take too long. I’d like to keep this arm” she called after him.
He stepped out of the curtained area and scanned the ER.
Where was Maki?
He moved quickly through the room until he heard her voice. “Charging to 200”
Inside the trauma bay, Maki stood beside a patient lying motionless, the nurses moving with precision.
“Clear!” The defibrillator discharged. The patient’s body jolted violently. The monitor remained flat.
“Resume compressions” Maki ordered.
Minutes passed that felt like hours. Finally, a nurse performing compressions looked up. “The patient’s been down for twenty minutes.”
Maki pulled off her gloves. “Time of death: 00:24”
The room relaxed slightly, though the tension lingered in the air. A nurse muttered, “Who wants to do paperwork?”
Maki stepped away from the bed and walked out of the room, tossing the gloves into a bin. That was when she noticed Yuta standing in the middle of the hallway, staring. Her expression darkened immediately.
“What the hell are you doing standing around in the middle of the ER?” Yuta blinked, startled.
“I...I’m sorry about the patient. I… if I had—” Maki’s irritation grew with every word coming out of his mouth. “Shut up.”
Yuta froze.
Maki stepped closer, her eyes sharp. “You think standing there looking sad helps anyone?”
“I—”
“Show me the patient”
Yuta led her back to Mrs. Tao’s bed.
Maki glanced at the injury once, then at him. “Why isn’t this sutured yet?”
“I… wasn’t sure if—”
“Of course you weren’t.” She dropped a suture kit in front of him. “Congratulations”
His stomach dropped. “I’m closing it?”
“Yes. You heard me”
Mrs. Tao leaned in. “Oh wonderful. A first-timer. Lucky me”
Yuta slowly picked up the needle holder. The metal felt heavier than it should have. His fingers tightened around it, trying to hide the slight tremor that betrayed his nerves. He positioned the needle the way he had practiced countless times in the simulation lab. Back then it had been easy—clean foam pads, bright lights, no blood, no patient staring at you while you tried not to make a mistake. This was different. The needle felt alive in his hand, the wound beneath it pulsing slightly as Mrs. Tao shifted, and Yuta suddenly realized that every motion mattered.
Mrs. Tao leaned slightly to look at him. “Oh good,” she said dryly. “He looks like he’s about to faint.”
“I’m not going to faint,” Yuta murmured, though the tremor in his hands said otherwise. His stomach churned, and his throat felt tight, as if swallowing air might make him collapse. He tried to focus, tried to remember the techniques he had drilled a hundred times, but the reality of a real arm, real blood, and the patient’s gaze made everything slippery in his mind.
Maki snorted behind him, the sound low but sharp. Yuta could feel her eyes on his back, piercing, impatient.
Mrs. Tao glanced at her. “You know,” she said, “you could just do the stitches yourself. You look like the competent one.”
Maki didn’t move closer to the bed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her jaw tightened, a faint crease forming between her brows as she watched Yuta fumble slightly. “No,” she said flatly.
Mrs. Tao blinked. “No?”
“He’s doing it,” Maki replied without lifting her gaze from Yuta, her tone clipped, leaving no room for argument.
Yuta’s stomach dropped. He felt the weight of every eye in the room. Maki’s critical stare, Mrs. Tao’s amused skepticism, the quiet presence of the nurses hovering nearby. He tried to steady his breathing, but each inhale felt shallow and sharp.
Mrs. Tao frowned. “Are you sure about that? He looks terrified.”
“He should be,” Maki replied flatly, her shoulders tensing. Yuta noticed her fingers twitching slightly, her usual calm slipping for the briefest second. She wanted to snap, to reach over and do it herself, but she held back, arms stiff, eyes locked on him, forcing him to act. “He needs to learn.”
Yuta leaned closer to the wound, his palms sweating, his heart thumping against his ribcage. “Forty-five degrees,” Maki said immediately, her voice sharper now. He adjusted the angle, the tension in her tone making him flinch.
“Not that shallow,” she added. “You’re closing a wound, not decorating it”
Mrs. Tao sighed loudly. “You two are stressing me out”
He pushed the needle through the skin. The resistance was nothing like the foam pads
“Now tie it” Maki instructed, her arms still crossed, fingers flexing slightly as if she were ready to snatch the needle away at any misstep. Yuta’s fingers moved clumsily, but the knot held.
“Your knots are ugly” she said bluntly.
Mrs. Tao gasped dramatically. “You’re critiquing his knots while he’s sewing my arm?”
“They are ugly,” Maki repeated, her tone calm but her jaw tight, eyes narrowing as Yuta’s hands shook slightly again.
Yuta tried to focus on the next stitch. This one went smoother, but his shoulders were tight, his breath uneven, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Closer spacing,” Maki said.
He adjusted, trying to remember every motion. Mrs. Tao shook her head. “You’re like a drill sergeant.”
“Better than letting him butcher the wound,” Maki muttered under her breath, the edge in her voice sharp enough that Yuta flinched.
He tried very hard not to think about the word butcher while holding the needle over someone’s arm. Another stitch. Another knot. His breathing steadied slightly, though his hands still trembled as though protesting.
Mrs. Tao noticed. “Well,” she said, “at least he stopped looking like he’s about to throw up.”
“He almost did earlier,” Maki replied, her voice tight, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Please stop talking about me like I’m not here” Yuta muttered, cheeks burning.
Maki ignored him. “Rotate your wrist more.”
He did, adjusting, the tension in his shoulders gradually easing. “Better,” she added. Her expression softened slightly, though her eyes still bore into his movements. Yuta could feel the weight of her scrutiny in every stitch.
Mrs. Tao squinted at the stitches. “You know,” she said, “for someone who looked like he might pass out, that’s actually not bad.”
Yuta blinked. “…Thank you?”
“Don’t get distracted” Maki warned. “You’re not done.”
He placed the next stitch. Then another. The wound was almost closed, and a small flicker of relief rose in his chest. Just one more. But as he lifted the needle for the final stitch, his hands started trembling again. Stronger this time. The needle wavered above the skin.
“Maki… I…” he whispered. “I don’t… why…”
Maki stepped closer for the first time, her frustration evident in the slight flare of her nostrils and the stiff set of her shoulders. Her fingers clenched slightly, then relaxed, gloved hands hovering as if she were deciding how much to intervene. “Okkotsu” Her voice was quieter now, low but commanding.
“When was the last time you drank water?”
Yuta didn’t answer.
“When was the last time you ate something?”
His silence was answer enough. Maki stared at him for a second, irritation flashing across her face, then sighed sharply, her shoulders slumping for a moment as if the day had finally caught up with her. She pulled a pair of gloves from the tray.
“Wait for me outside,” she said.
Yuta blinked. “What?”
“Vending machines. Next to the cafeteria.”
She snapped the gloves on, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Yuta shook his head quickly. “I can finish. You don’t...”
“I’m not asking you.” Her voice was firm enough that it startled both him and Mrs. Tao.
“Move”
Yuta froze. Maki stepped forward, gently but decisively taking the needle holder from his hand. The faint tension in her jaw relaxed slightly once she had it under control, though her eyes still burned with impatience.
Mrs. Tao looked between them, surprised. “Well” she muttered, “that escalated.”
Yuta still hadn’t moved.
Maki glanced at him again, her expression sharp but less cold than before. “You’re shaking because your blood sugar is probably nonexistent and you’ve been running around the hospital all day without food.”
He opened his mouth to protest.
“Go,” she said. For once, the word wasn’t an insult. It was an order.
Yuta slowly stepped back. As he left the room, he could hear Mrs. Tao speaking again. “You’re much nicer to him than you pretend to be.”
Maki didn’t answer immediately. The only sound left was the faint, steady puncture of the needle through skin as she resumed, her focus sharp, hands steady.
Yuta had meant to grab something quick. Something simple—maybe rice, a sandwich—anything light that wouldn’t make his stomach feel worse. But the moment he stepped into the cafeteria, the warm smell of food hit him all at once, and he realized just how hungry he was. His stomach grumbled painfully, almost accusingly, and for a second he felt like his body had betrayed him. By the time he actually paid attention, he was already halfway through his second bowl of spaghetti and finishing his third bottle of water.
He ate quickly, almost mechanically, his hands moving without conscious thought as if his body had taken over the moment food appeared. Seven minutes later, the bowls were empty, and reality hit him. He looked down at his hands and face, smeared with sauce, hair slightly disheveled, scrubs wrinkled and clinging to him from the long day. He hurried to the restroom, splashing cold water on his face, trying to scrub the fatigue, the grime, and the lingering anxiety from the first day off his skin. He caught his reflection in the mirror and tried to straighten himself, taking a deep breath. Pull yourself together. You can’t look like this in front of her.
He stepped back into the hallway—and froze.
“Didn’t I tell you to wait next to the vending machine?”
Maki stood at the end of the corridor, arms crossed, eyes already narrowed like twin blades. Her posture radiated authority, every inch of her ready to cut down excuses.
“S-sorry, Maki-san. I was in the...”
She didn’t let him finish. In two long strides, she grabbed the collar of his scrubs and started dragging him down the hallway. Yuta’s stomach lurched, heart pounding in his ears. “M-Maki—”
“Walk.”
The emergency staircase loomed ahead. She shoved the door open and pushed him inside, guiding him to a quiet landing between floors. The door slammed behind them, and the sudden silence made Yuta’s chest tighten.
I’m dead.
His hands were slightly shaking, palms sticky with leftover spaghetti sauce, and he wished he could disappear.
When they were finally alone, she let go of his collar, and for a moment, she simply looked at him. Her gaze wasn’t soft, far from it, but it was calculating, almost assessing him in a way that made him feel seen, truly seen. Then she scoffed.
“You look like a fucking mess.”
Yuta stiffened, shoulders curling inwards. His hair fell into his eyes, eyes rimmed with fatigue, dark circles etched from the day’s endless movement.
“And your work today was a mess too,” she continued sharply. “Nobody here is responsible for your ass, so you’d better start taking care of yourself!”
The words hit harder than he expected. Her voice wasn’t merely critical. It carried a weight of truth, a recognition that he had been failing himself more than anyone else. There was something in her tone that suggested she understood what it meant to carry exhaustion, fear, and self-doubt all at once.
“Yes ma’am,” he said quietly, trying to sound firm, but the sound felt hollow even to him.
“Shut up,” Maki snapped immediately. “I’m not done, crybaby.”
He flinched.
“If you don’t actually want to be here” she continued, voice sharper now, “then leave before you end up killing someone.”
The words lingered in the stairwell, heavy and unyielding. Yuta pressed his back against the cold concrete wall, feeling its hardness through his scrubs as if it were trying to anchor him. His chest felt tight, every inhale sharp.
Then Maki took a slow, measured breath, like she was forcing her frustration back down, folding it neatly so it didn’t spill over. “Why are you here?”
Yuta opened his mouth, but no sound came. His throat felt like sandpaper, words stuck somewhere deep in his chest. He wanted to explain himself, to justify the hours of exhaustion, the mistakes, the fumbling, but there were no words that could capture the weight of the past two years pressing down on him.
Maki stared at him for a long moment, silent and still, her presence sharp and unwavering. Then she clicked her tongue in irritation. “Figures” She turned toward the door. “Forget it”
“Maki—”
His voice came out before he could stop it, almost a whisper. “I regret being the one who’s still alive,” he said, voice trembling slightly. “I regret that she isn’t here and I am.”
He leaned back against the wall, eyes dropping to the scuffed stairwell floor, the weight of the day—and the last two years—settling deep into his bones. “Up until now… I’ve felt like I’m just taking up space. But I’m tired of feeling useless. Tired of living a life that doesn’t mean anything.” His fingers clenched against the fabric of his scrubs, knuckles whitening. “I want to find some meaning in the decisions I’ve made.”
Silence fell between them, heavy but not hostile. For a moment, Yuta thought Maki had left, she didn't need to listen to his crap. But then he felt her back press against the wall beside him. He looked up slightly. She was still there, leaning against the wall, rigid but calm, not looking at him, just forward.
“If you want meaning,” she said after a long pause, her voice quieter, calmer now, “start by saving lives.”
Her tone wasn’t patronizing. There was no shallow pep talk in her words. It carried weight, earned through experience, through nights of exhaustion and fear, through mistakes she had survived and learned from. Yuta felt it sink in, into the tight coil of guilt and self-doubt that had twisted in his chest for months.
“As many as you can,” she added, arms crossed, leaning slightly back. “Recognition, respect… friends. Those things come later. But there’s nothing better than knowing someone is still alive because you didn’t screw up.”
The stairwell was silent again, the kind of quiet that feels alive, like it was waiting for him to absorb the truth. Yuta’s chest expanded slightly as he let the words settle. For the first time that day, it felt like someone understood—not superficially, but deeply, as though she could see the part of him that even he didn’t fully admit existed.
Then she pushed herself off the wall. “Come on,” she said, her bluntness returning, her voice carrying the same steel it always did. “We still have patients.”
As they left the stairwell, the quiet conversation dissolved the moment the noise of the hospital swallowed them again. The relentless hum of monitors, the sharp beeps of alarms, the distant calls of nurses—it all came rushing back at once. Yuta followed Maki toward the ER, trying desperately to steady his breathing. His chest felt tight, and every step echoed in his skull, a physical reminder of the tension coiling in his stomach. He had eaten, hydrated, and tried to center himself.
Then both of their beepers went off, the sharp alarms slicing through the hallway. Maki glanced down at the screen, her expression unreadable, and then at him. “Move.” The single word had no room for argument. She was already running, long strides eating up the distance between them and the ER doors. Yuta’s stomach tightened—not with hunger this time—but with fear and anticipation.
The moment they entered the ER, a nurse waved them toward a trauma bay. “Two pediatric patients,” she said, her voice urgent but calm. “Both fell from a tree. One has lacerations and minor bleeding—stable. The other started seizing on arrival.”
Maki didn’t hesitate. She was already moving toward the second bed. The child—maybe eight or nine years old—was convulsing violently, small body jerking against the restraints as the monitor screamed. Yuta’s stomach dropped. He had seen seizures before in textbooks, in simulations—but never like this. Never with real tiny bodies twisting against life itself. His hands itched to help, but he knew the wrong move could make things worse.
“Status epilepticus?” Maki asked, voice calm but sharp, eyes flicking between the boy and the monitors.
“Possible,” the nurse replied. “We’re preparing diazepam.”
Maki leaned closer, examining the child with precise efficiency. “Airway clear?”
“Still breathing.”
“Good. Give the benzo.”
The medication was administered quickly. Slowly, the seizure activity began to ease, and the child’s body relaxed. Relief surged in Yuta for a fleeting second—until the monitor shrieked again. Heart rate dropping. Blood pressure falling. Breathing irregular.
“He’s crashing,” the nurse said, voice tight.
Maki’s brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. She leaned closer to the child, checking pupils and vitals with practiced precision. “Pupils?”
“One sluggish.”
Her eyes snapped up. “Page Gojo-sensei. Now!”
Yuta froze, staring at the boy. The pieces clicked in his mind—the fall from height, the seizure, the rapid neurological decline. Memories of his studies, simulations, everything he had ever learned in theory, surged. His heart thundered painfully in his chest.
“Maki-san… wait” he said, voice cracking slightly.
She glanced at him. “What?”
He leaned over the boy, checking the pupil again, fingers trembling slightly as he tried to steady himself. Dilated. His pulse hammered painfully against his ribs. “This might be intracranial bleeding.”
“Subdural?” she asked, eyes scanning the monitors.
“Maybe. But look at the pressure signs” He pointed to the child’s forehead, where subtle swelling suggested rapidly rising intracranial pressure.
The monitor beeped again, slower this time. Yuta’s stomach twisted. “If the pressure keeps increasing… he only has minutes” he whispered.
Maki’s sharp gaze swept toward the door. Gojo wasn’t there yet.
“What’s your solution?” she asked.
Yuta hesitated, panic clawing at the edges of his mind. Then the answer came. “A needle decompression.”
Maki blinked. “For the skull?”
“We could attempt an emergency burr needle drainage,” he said, voice shaking slightly but gaining strength as he recalled every diagram he had studied. “Through the frontal bone. It might stabilize him long enough for Gojo-sensei to take over.”
She studied him for a long, measured moment. Yuta could feel her appraisal like a weight pressing down on his chest. Then, decisively, she nodded. “You do it”
“I—what?” His throat went dry, mouth suddenly desert-dried.
“I’ll stabilize the head,” she said, already moving into position beside the bed. “You decompress.”
“I meant I could guide you...”
“Yuta” Her voice was sharp, cutting through his panic. “If you know it, then do it. I’m not a neuro specialist”
He swallowed hard, hands trembling. The small room felt impossibly tight, the monitors screaming, the child’s body taut with life and fear, and all of it landed squarely on his shoulders. For a moment, he wondered if he should just step back, leave, pretend he didn’t know.
Then Maki’s hand pressed against his arm, firm but not rough. Enough to snap him out of the spiral of doubt. “Breathe,” she said quietly, a rare note of steadiness threading through her usual bluntness. “Don’t overthink it”
He inhaled. Slowly. Then again. His body protested, stiff from fatigue, trembling from nerves, but he forced focus. “Large-bore syringe and spinal needle...now” he said to the nurse.
The equipment was delivered almost instantly. Yuta took the instruments into his shaking hands. Maki positioned the boy’s head with calm, deliberate precision, eyes flicking between Yuta and the monitors.
“Landmark?” she asked.
“Frontal region… lateral to the midline,” he said, recalling every anatomy diagram etched into memory. His fingers found the correct point, shaking slightly but steadying as he concentrated. You can do this.
He inserted the needle carefully, pressure controlled, mind sharp despite exhaustion. At first—nothing. Then resistance gave way, and dark fluid began filling the syringe. Relief washed over him in a sharp, adrenaline-fueled rush.
“Drain slowly” Maki instructed.
Seconds passed. The monitor softened as heart rate and breathing stabilized. The boy’s body relaxed fractionally, and Yuta finally exhaled, hands trembling for a different reason now—less fear, more disbelief at what he had just done.
Across the room, the doors burst open. Satoru Gojo stepped inside, towering and effortlessly charismatic, stopping the moment he saw the syringe in Yuta’s hands, then the monitors, then the child. A slow smile spread across his face, the kind that made it clear he was thoroughly impressed but never one to sugarcoat anything.
“Well,” Gojo said finally, voice carrying both amusement and awe, “that’s one hell of a first day.”
Gojo’s gaze sharpened, slicing through the residual chaos of the ER. “Prep an OR. Now,” he said, voice calm but commanding. The nurses moved instantly, fluid and precise, as if reading his thoughts before he even finished speaking. “Possible intracranial hemorrhage. We’re going to evacuate it before that pressure spikes again.” Then he turned toward Yuta. “You. Scrub in.”
Yuta froze, chest tightening as his pulse kicked up. “Me?” he asked, disbelief and fear coiling inside him like a spring ready to snap. Gojo was already halfway down the hallway, stride long and unyielding, eyes fixed forward. “Yes, you. Move.”
Yuta glanced back instinctively, seeking Maki. She had been there, helping him stabilize the boy’s head, guiding him through that moment of crisis. Without her, he probably would have frozen entirely. But when he looked around, she was gone—vanished back into the ER, a blur of efficiency. No goodbye. No glance. Just… gone. The absence left a hollow ache in his chest, an odd mix of loss and admiration.
In the scrub room, the bright fluorescent lights burned against his tired eyes. He mechanically went through the motions, fingers, palms, forearms, elbows—each scrub a mental checklist he had drilled just looking at Gojo. The antiseptic soap stung as he rubbed, its sharp smell filling his nostrils, mingling with the metallic taste of fear lingering from the ER. Five minutes. Don’t break sterility.
Focus
His hands trembled slightly under the running water from the fading adrenaline that left his muscles quivering like they had been wrung dry.
When he finally stepped into the operating room, the chaos of the ER seemed a distant memory. Here, everything was calm, almost impossibly deliberate. Machines hummed softly, surgical lights cast an icy, precise glow, and nurses moved with synchrony that made Yuta’s own movements feel clumsy and awkward by comparison. He tried not to stare, but his eyes inevitably followed every motion. The room had been assembled in mere minutes, yet it felt like a cathedral of quiet authority, every surface and instrument a testament to purpose and control.
At the center of it all stood Gojo. The playful energy he wielded outside the OR, the teasing, the charm, the chaos, was gone. Here, he was all focus and poise, movements fluid, his face set in lines of professional concentration that made Yuta’s own panic seem almost absurd.
Yuta’s throat tightened as he watched Gojo’s hands guide the scalpel across the scalp. Every incision was deliberate, every movement meticulous, and the field of blood that appeared briefly was cleared as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
He had studied neurosurgery for years—lectures, textbooks, simulations—but nothing had prepared him for this reality. Every millimeter, every subtle twitch of tissue mattered. Every heartbeat was a demand, a reminder that a mistake here could erase an entire lifetime of memories. When Gojo used the surgical drill to create the burr hole, the soft whine echoed in the room, a mechanical heartbeat that matched Yuta’s own. The dura was exposed, pale and delicate.
“Closer Yuta” Gojo said, voice calm but carrying the weight of expectation.
Yuta blinked, nerves coiling in his stomach. As he peered through the opening, the brain—pale, soft, faintly pulsating—lay beneath him. He felt a strange, almost reverent awe. It wasn’t grotesque, wasn’t terrifying. It was beautiful. Every memory, every thought, every dream encapsulated in that delicate organ.
Gojo carefully opened the dura and began evacuating the hematoma. Dark fluid drained through the suction steadily. The monitors began to stabilize, and Yuta felt a flicker of hope—brief and tentative, like sunlight through storm clouds. “Pressure’s dropping,” the anesthesiologist announced.
“Good” Gojo said softly, almost conversationally, yet every word was sharp in its precision. Hours passed like minutes. Instruments passed without hesitation. Every movement had purpose.
Yuta’s body relaxed fractionally, muscles uncoiling from tension he hadn’t realized he’d held so tightly. When Gojo finally finished irrigating and closing the layers, the clock read four hours. The final suture was placed, and the patient was wheeled toward the Pediatric ICU.
Yuta followed silently, chest still pounding and hands trembling, not from fear now, but from the sheer weight of what he had just accomplished. The adrenaline that had driven him earlier ebbed into exhaustion. When Gojo gestured for him to sit in the attending’s lounge, Yuta sank into the nearest chair, shoulders slumping as if the room itself had pressed him down.
Gojo leaned against the counter, eyes sharp but gentle. Ready for panic, for fainting. But instead, Yuta let out a quiet breath, then smiled. “Sensei,” he said softly, voice hoarse, “I don’t think it’s normal to feel… peaceful after watching someone’s brain.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a laugh escaping him—half disbelief, half relief. “But I can’t explain what I’m feeling right now.”
Gojo chuckled, a sound both knowing and approving. “That, dear Yuta,” he said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder, “is the feeling of saving a life.” His words settled deep in Yuta’s chest, anchoring him in a way nothing else had in years.
“You’ve got good instincts” Gojo continued, voice softening slightly, admiration threading through his usual bluntness. “Natural neuro intuition” Then, with a grin breaking through
“Unfortunately, your basic clinical skills are terrible. So… you’d better work on those.”
Yuta laughed weakly, shoulders sagging as relief and pride mingled. “Yes, sensei”
Gojo straightened, stretching his arms with the careless grace of someone who had just performed a miracle and made it look easy. “Alright. Go home”
Yuta blinked, realizing the truth of those words. He had been awake for eighteen hours. Every step he took toward the exit felt like the first real weight of the day finally settling onto him—but there was something different now.
Gojo smiled quietly to himself, watching the figure of the young resident recede down the hallway. Yeah, he thought. That one’s going to be dangerous. A natural neurosurgeon.
By the time Yuta finally reached the locker room, the hospital had quieted down. The frantic rhythm of the ER had faded into a low, constant hum: the distant beeping of monitors, the muffled voices down the hallways, and the occasional clatter of a cart. His body felt leaden, every muscle stiff and screaming from eighteen hours of near-constant movement. The adrenaline that had carried him through the day was finally draining, leaving behind an ache in his chest and a weight in his legs that made each step feel monumental. He had survived the chaos, yes but barely.
Every memory of the ER, of Gojo’s unnerving calm in the OR, and Maki pushing him to act, played through his mind like a high-speed slideshow, each frame sharper and more vivid than the last.
He pushed open the door slowly, half-expecting it to creak like a door in a haunted house. Inside, three familiar figures stood near the benches, and for a brief moment, Yuta hesitated, unsure if he belonged here at all.
Maki was already changed into regular clothes, stretching her shoulders like someone who had just finished an intense workout. Her movements were controlled and effortless, every muscle flowing into the next as though exhaustion was a challenge. Even in her casual attire, there was a precision to her posture, a tautness that betrayed how seriously she carried herself even when off-duty. Next to her, Panda leaned against a locker, arms crossed, watching the interaction with a quiet, easy presence, nodding along as if he were part of a conversation he already understood fully. Toge Inumaki sat on the bench, silent, his calm, observant demeanor a contrast to the energy Maki and Panda radiated. They looked like a team, a unit that had existed long before Yuta stepped into the hospital.
Comfortable, synchronized, dangerous in their efficiency. And Yuta couldn’t help the small, bitter twist of loneliness in his chest.
He wanted to walk over, to say thank you, to apologize for not speaking up when Gojo had dragged him into the OR. He wanted to acknowledge that without Maki pushing him to act, holding the child steady, the emergency decompression never would have happened. Maybe it was better to leave quietly. The three of them looked comfortable, laughing quietly in ways that made the space feel like it had boundaries Yuta couldn’t cross. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, maybe tomorrow he’d find the courage. He turned slightly, preparing to leave quietly, hoping to fade into the background and let the moment pass.
“You, neuro-freak”
Yuta froze. Every muscle in his body stiffened, the weight of shame and inadequacy pressing down on him. He turned slowly. All three were watching him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Maki asked, stepping forward. Her tired eyes locked on him, reading him like a chart. Up close, he noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the faint redness around her ears, the subtle tension in her jaw, and the way she carried exhaustion like armor, not weakness. She probably survived eighteen-hour shifts without breaking a sweat, and here he was, barely holding himself together.
“Me?” he managed, voice hoarse and awkward.
“Maki, stop giving people nicknames,” Panda muttered, shaking his head. “Girl, you are so weird"
“Shut up,” Maki replied, waving him off. Then she pointed at Yuta “Who else would I be talking to?”
Yuta shuffled closer, still painfully aware of the aches in his legs, the stiffness in his neck, the tremor in his hands, and the sticky residue of antiseptic on his skin. “We were just talking about you,” Maki continued, casual but pointed. “These two idiots wanted to hear about the stunt you pulled in the ER”
Panda raised his hands defensively. “In my defense, near-brain decompression in the ER is not normal first-day behavior”
Inumaki raised both hands slightly. “Everybody is talking about it”
“…Is that true?” Yuta asked quietly, voice cracking with exhaustion and lingering fear.
“You know how to make an entrance, pretty boy” Panda confirmed with a mischievous smirk.
Yuta rubbed the back of his neck, stiff from hours of leaning over monitors and patients, and muttered quickly, “Really… it wasn’t just me. Without Maki-san holding the patient’s head steady, it would’ve been impossible. I actually wanted to apologize for not mentioning that earlier when Gojo-sensei took me to the OR...”
“Yuta” Maki cut him off. Not sharp this time, but firm. Unyielding. She didn’t need to scold him “Don’t”
He looked up. Her eyes softened just enough for a second, a quiet acknowledgment: she saw the fear, the anxiety, the trembling determination in him. “We did what we had to do,” she said, shrugging. “The kid’s alive. That’s the only part that matters.”
Panda leaned toward Inumaki, whispering loud enough for everyone to hear. “Wow. That was almost emotional.”
“Yeah” Inumaki replied, deadpan.
Yuta blinked. “…Was that sarcasm?”
“Extreme sarcasm” Panda said with a grin.
Maki shot both of them a glare despite exhaustion.
“Shut it” Then she turned to Yuta. “And don’t apologize for getting into the OR. Opportunities like that don’t come around every day. Most residents would kill to see it. Literally. And not everyone here has a weird obsession with brains like you do”
Panda smirked. “Yeah, most people ease into their surgical careers. You? You skipped the warm-up and went straight to sticking things into someone’s skull.”
Inumaki raised a hand in quiet approval. “You are wild”
Yuta’s cheeks flamed red. “That… sounds worse when you say it like that.”
“Seriously,” said Panda with some seriousness “Most of my day was checking post-op charts and getting yelled at by a nurse because I wrote ‘poop consistency: suspicious’ in a report.”
“…Suspicious?” Yuta blinked
“It looked suspicious” Panda shrugged.
Maki pinched the bridge of her nose “You’re an idiot.”
“It was suspicious” Inumaki raised two fingers.
Panda laughed.
“See? Even he agrees.”
Yuta found himself smiling slightly despite his exhaustion. For the first time that day, the tension in Yuta’s chest eased slightly.
After a few moments of several more of Panda’s questionable jokes about Yuta’s first-day “brain stunt” the group started moving toward the exit.
“I vote we grab some tea,” Panda said, stretching lazily as they stepped outside, the faint click of his boots on the wet pavement punctuating an early morning “Something warm. And maybe with sugar. My brain cells are dead.” His grin was as irreverent as ever, and Yuta couldn’t help but feel a little lighter just hearing it.
“Please, I need something decent”
“Fine,” Maki said, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders against the cool morning air “But don’t let this turn into some long sightseeing trip. We have rounds tomorrow, and you all need sleep.” Her tone was clipped, commanding, but there was a faint softness in her voice as she added the last part.
The streets smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts and damp asphalt from a passing shower, the neon reflections in puddles making the night feel electric.
They approached a small tea shop tucked into the corner of the block. The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside, the warm scent of steeping herbs and sugar wrapping around them like a brief comfort against the morning’s chill.
Panda immediately ordered three cups of black tea with honey, leaning on the counter like it was a lounge rather than a tea shop, and Inumaki nodded silently in confirmation. Yuta fumbled with coins in his pocket, grateful for the temporary stillness after the day’s chaos. He noticed Maki leaning slightly toward him as the cashier prepared the drinks. Her eyes were sharp, assessing, impossible to read, and her words came out clipped but firm.
“Meet me at the skills lab before rounds tomorrow,” she said without preamble “Your sutures were terrible today. You need to catch up on what you missed the last few months”
Yuta felt his stomach drop, a knot of dread tightening in his gut, but beneath it, determination sparked. He opened his mouth to respond, to protest, but Maki had already stepped back, paying for her own tea with brisk efficiency
“Got it,” he murmured, the words barely audible over the quiet clatter of cups and spoons.
Panda nudged him gently, a crooked grin on his face. “Don’t worry, pretty-boy,” he said, voice teasing but comforting. “If she’s taking time to fix your stitches, that means you are not a lost case”
Inumaki raised a hand in silent agreement.
Yuta chuckled, despite the lingering tension in his chest and the tremor in his hands. The tea cup warmed his fingers, but the heat didn’t completely settle the adrenaline still buzzing in his veins.
Today had been terrifying, exhausting, and utterly surreal—but in the midst of that chaos, he had done something extraordinary. He had saved a life. And he had survived.
He glanced at Maki, walking a few steps ahead, the slight sway of her jacket and the easy rhythm of her stride belied just how tightly controlled she always was. Sharp, intimidating, impossible to read, yet somehow, inspirational. Yuta had felt seen. Not pity or condescension, but a recognition of his struggle, his fear, his hesitation, and his determination. There was an unspoken acknowledgment that she understood the weight of what it meant to be responsible for another person’s life, and that in some quiet way, she had trusted him enough to step up.
Tomorrow, he thought, his fingers tightening unconsciously around the tea cup, he would do better.
He allowed himself a faint smile, tired and shaky, but real. For the first time that day, he felt a flicker of hope that maybe, with this strange, dangerous, and irreverent trio at his side, he could survive this madness. And maybe, just maybe, he could belong.