The heavy, pressurized doors of the ICU hissed open, and the air within shifted instantly, becoming several degrees colder.
Shirohara Retsu stepped into the sterile sanctuary of machines and quiet monitors, her presence cutting through the frantic energy of the medical staff like a scalpel through silk.
The lead surgeon, a man who had spent thirty years at the top of his field, turned with a reprimand on his tongue, but his eyes widened until the whites showed and he nearly dropped his equipment.
"Y-You are—!?"
"Miss Shirohara!?" another doctor gasped, stumbling back to give her a clear path. "We didn't know you were coming! The patient's vitals are unstable, the internal hemorrhaging is—"
"Move aside," Retsu ordered. Her voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a terrifying, absolute authority that brooked no argument.
She stood beside the bed, staring down at Seijirou.
He looked smaller amidst the nest of tubes and the rhythmic, artificial puffing of the ventilator.
