His gaze shifted toward the operating room window, where the faint silhouettes of a surgical team moved under the bright light.

"See that nurse over there? Her left hand’s a bit stiff..."

He glanced at me briefly, the sterile light reflecting off his glasses, then directed his attention toward the instrument table.

"She’s probably still learning the retracting technique."

I followed his gaze, the faint clink of metal tools mixing with the steady hiss of the ventilator, trying to spot what he meant.

"Why pay attention to that?"

"Because every detail here decides whether the person on that table lives or dies," he replied quietly but firmly. "If you want to learn medicine, start by learning how to see."

I fell silent, the smell of antiseptic heavy in my nose, trying to take in his words. Around us, the steady beeping of the monitor counted seconds we couldn’t waste.

"And one more thing," he continued, "a doctor isn’t just someone who holds a scalpel or prescribes medicine. A doctor is someone who knows when not to use either."

I stared at him for a while, not fully understanding, yet somehow the words lodged deep in my mind.

"Grandpa..." I called hesitantly, my voice barely audible over the rustle of gowns and gloves. "What if I get scared of seeing blood?"

He gave a faint smile and patted my shoulder with his gloved hand, the latex cool against my skin.

"Fear is natural. What matters is not letting that fear make your decisions for you."

My heart pounded; my other hand instinctively rubbed the base of my palm—an old habit whenever I was anxious. The words slipped out quickly, half to test the waters, half to deflect. "It’s not a request. Just a hypothesis. I don’t know if it’s really my wish or just a way to dodge what the family expects of me."

My grandpa then set down his cup, his hands balling into fists for a brief moment before he relaxed his fingers and reached for the back of my hand. His palm was warm; his grip was light, giving support without binding. He brushed his thumb over the back of my hand as if dusting off something fine and fragile.

"Playing ’what if’ is no sin, child," he said softly, his voice as calming as wool.

"It’s how humans see other roads."

I met his gaze—there was a softness there that loosened the tightness in my chest a little. My ragged breathing eased, though a part of me still resisted. I lifted my chin, trying to string my thoughts together again.

"Grandpa, I’m afraid all of this will just be a tool for proving a point. If I choose it only because I have to, I’m afraid I’ll end up hating myself."

He exhaled deeply and gave me a faint, knowing smile.

"That’s a good reason to delay the choice. Don’t choose only to appease others. Choose because you’re willing to bear the consequences—not to prove something to them."

I released my grip on the chair; my tense fingers slowly uncurled. A small relief crept through the bones of my hand—not an answer, but space to breathe. My voice dropped. "So... I’m allowed to doubt?"

Grandfather’s lips curved. He kissed the back of my hand before letting it go.

"Allowed. Even required. Doubt means you’re thinking, not that you’re weak."

His eyes demanded nothing, only granting permission.

I glanced toward the window—my eyes glistening, but not from despair. Just a simple acknowledgment: I hadn’t chosen yet. I was still testing possibilities, one ’what if’ at a time. For tonight, that permission was enough.

Grandfather studied me for a long moment. "If you truly want it, then be one. But be a good one. Don’t give just because you can; give because it’s needed."

A few months later, Grandfather took his final breath. His advice stayed with me—a note unlike my father’s voice, which measured only results. Between those two voices I learned to walk: one pushing me toward success and dominance; the other opening space for empathy and a profession that wasn’t just inheritance.

Today, when I think about the doujinshi that might have been sent, everything feels layered: the contract with Selene, the family’s demands, the Institute’s experiment, the memory of the operating room, and Grandfather’s unfinished counsel. All of them vie for space in my head, turning a small worry into an invisible field where I have to choose my next step.

I look at the writing on the desk—a small note with a faint address.

My heartbeat quickens slightly. If it has already been sent, Selene might know.

If not, maybe I can still do something now.

I inhale deeply. The world outside the window remains undisturbed; life goes on, people head to work, children laugh in the park. But inside my head, there’s a choice to make: follow the script that’s been written for me, or write it myself—slowly, throughout the day, with small actions that don’t always obey the rules.

Among all of these memory fragments, one that stood out: The day when I attempted to test the limits of botulinum toxin. A sickly-sweet cough syrup, regarded as a miracle cure yet disguised itself as the death sentence. I drank far too much, as the world was spinning and began to obfuscating before I eventually collapsed.

Soon after, the scene switched in a swift.

From the panicked rush to the hospital, the taste of fear, the coldness beneath my cheek to the comatose-alike state when a chill struck my body...

Then all of a sudden, a gentle-spoken voice waking me up.

A young doctor, with his eyes wearing glasses, listening to my interest with a genuine curiosity that made me feel... present. He didn’t scold, let alone did he dismiss my demands. He simply asked questions, then my interest sparking something within.

"You have a remarkable intelligence."

By the time he had said that, his words were slowly but sure becoming a lifeline.

"You should consider to be a doctor."

And yes, he was Satoko Kazumi.