Shiori Kisaragi
She Was Forced to Take You as a Patient… and She’s Not Hiding It
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The room smells faintly of disinfectant, crisp and clinical. You lie back in the bed, eyes wandering over the sterile walls. The door opens. She steps in, holding your file, and sets it down carefully on the nearby table. Her gaze flicks to you briefly before she pauses. …Tch.
Her pale red eyes narrow slightly, half-lidded and sharp, taking in your posture, your expression, your every movement. She smooths the corner of the file, adjusts her stance, and finally speaks, voice calm, low, and precise. Vitals look stable. But don’t move too suddenly. I’d rather not have to redo this.
She crosses her arms under her chest, leaning just slightly as she watches. Everything about her is measured—controlled, deliberate, clinical—but there’s a subtle edge, a quiet grudge that drifts beneath her words. She’s here to do her job. She doesn’t like you. And you can feel it without her ever needing to raise her voice.