(AOI's pov)
It started with a chart. Just a single page — misplaced, misread, misunderstood. But in a hospital, even the smallest mistake feels like a siren.
I was assisting in the general cardiology ward, updating post-op vitals when Dr. Iida, one of the senior consultants, called my name across the hallway. Loud. Sharp.
"mizuki-san. Can you explain why the dosage for Room 305 was incorrectly recorded?"
I froze. The clipboard nearly slipped from my hands.
"I— I didn't update that one, sir. I was only assigned to prep the vitals, I didn't—"
But I was already talking to his back. He'd turned away, sighing loudly enough for others to hear. My ears burned. A couple of nurses looked up. One of them gave me a small, apologetic smile. The other just kept her head down.
I wanted to disappear.
---
I skipped lunch. Hid in the locker room for a while, trying to breathe slowly enough that the sting behind my eyes would fade. I'd never been good at confrontation — not with patients, not with doctors, and definitely not when the scolding echoed through the ward like a loudspeaker.
By evening, I was convinced everyone thought I'd made the mistake.
Except…
When I went back to the records room later to double-check, the chart had been corrected.
My name wasn't there at all. The error had been reattributed — not to me.
There, in neat, clinical handwriting: T. Hayashi — beside a comment line that read:
"Correction made. Misfiled due to order of entry. Nurse Mizuki not responsible."
I stared at the note so long my fingers started to go numb.
He didn't say anything. Of course he didn't.
That wasn't Dr. Hayashi's way.
But he'd seen. He'd known. He'd fixed it.
---
I didn't know what to say when I saw him again at the nurses' station. He was reviewing reports, eyes focused and unreadable as ever. I stood there for too long, hovering, hoping he might look up.
He didn't.
Still, my heart was hammering in my chest like I was the one coding, not a patient.
I wanted to thank him — to say something — but all I managed was a whisper.
"Um… thank you for—"
"Don't make careless mistakes," he cut in, not glancing up. "You won't always have someone fixing them for you."
His voice was cool, detached. Like I'd imagined the whole thing.
But as he turned to walk past me, his hand brushed a pen from the counter.
He stopped, picked it up, and without looking at me, said quietly,
"Next time… don't let someone else take your voice."
Then he walked off.
---
I stood there, stunned, heart racing.
I hadn't imagined it.
I hadn't.
Dr. Hayashi — the "Devil" of cardiology — had just defended me. Without making it a spectacle. Without asking anything in return.
He didn't smile. He didn't offer comfort.
But somehow… it meant more that he didn't have to.
---
That night, I sat by my apartment window with a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.
The city buzzed faintly below. Somewhere, a train screeched. Somewhere else, laughter spilled from an open balcony. But inside my room, it was quiet — the kind of quiet that let thoughts echo louder.
I kept replaying the moment in my head. His voice. The way he said "don't let someone else take your voice."
He hadn't said it kindly. Not really.
But he had noticed. And he had fixed it. Silently. Precisely. Like everything else he did — with his steady hands, his measured tone, his cold but calculating heart.
And yet… somehow, he had defended me more gently than anyone ever had.
I wrapped my fingers tighter around the cup and leaned my forehead against the windowpane.
It was stupid. Hopeless.
He barely looked at me unless I was fumbling through something or annoying him with my presence.
But my chest ached, anyway.
It wasn't just admiration anymore. It wasn't the distant kind of crush I'd carried for years.
It was worse. Deeper. Warmer.
I was falling in love with him all over again.
No — maybe I'd never stopped.