Morality || Bonten Timeline x Reader || UNDER MAJOR EDITING

1

The clock ticked, an annoying sound that permeated your mind even when you were away from the clinic.

Two hours and forty-eight minutes left. You sighed into your hand, a quiet hope that no-one would come and bother you.

Working in the undergrounds was stressful, and because of the legality – or lack of - of the clinic, you weren't paid well. It was a life for you to get readjusted to. Not unknown but simply forgotten. Your fingers tapped your desk in time to the clock before you heard the banging of a door.

"I'm heading out now. You okay to man for overtime?" A co-worker poked their head into your office. You barely glanced over to them as you nodded. You weren't the socializing kind, preferring to get in, get your job done and leave. This was the underworld of Japan; any kind of information was too much to share with people. You heard them leave, the close of the heavy door loud against the night. 

The clock kept ticking.

Your fingertips found a new rhythm to tap out against the desk. Just think of the money. 

Another bang. You assumed it to be your co-worker potentially forgetting something, but that didn't stop you from gripping the pocketknife in your jacket. The footsteps approaching were heavy and irregular. 

"Does this bloody place have a doctor?" A voice roared and you leapt to life as two men stumbled into your office.

"On the bed." You pointed, slapping on a pair of gloves and pulling your mask up. You helped the man haul his unconscious companion on your bed and fixed the overhead light to survey his condition. "How long ago was he shot?"

His companion dragged a bloodied hand down his face, a smear of red following, "two or so minutes ago." At the quake in his voice, you glanced up at him. 

You ignored it. "You tried to stop the bleeding?" You started hooking the man up to an iv and everything he needed as you asked. There was a stained jacket held out to you, dripping blood onto the floor.

"Yeah. Here." You wrinkled your nose beneath your mask.

"I don't want it." He dropped his arm down and you asked another question, "you know his blood type?" You began pumping his wound, clearing out blood and fluid to get a good look. 

"Uh," the man groaned, raking a hand through his hair this time, gripping it hard, "A."

"Are you sure?" You asked again. You didn't wanna risk anything here.

"Positive." He nodded.

You paused and frowned before continuing on with your work, "there's a shower and laundry room down the back. End of the hall to the left."

He staggered off, leaving you with the ticking clock and unconscious man.

With his shirt off and the area cleaned you could see what you were working with. A centimeter higher and you would've been stitching his intestines back together. He was lucky, his risk of infection would've been significantly higher if it had gotten his gastrointestinal fluid had leaked into his abdominal cavity. It was without too much ripped tissue and you thanked whoever shot him for making it clean. Your eyes trailed up to his neck and you grimaced. You tapped his drip, muttering to yourself. "Well, there's not much I can do." You set about dislodging the bullet, doing so without aggravating the wound. Once done, you wiped off all the visible remaining blood on the man before dressing his wound.

That'll take a while to heal.

The man stirred with a groan and you hovered over him, "how do you feel sir?"

His lips curled up into an innocent grin, "wow. You look like an angel, you know." He reached up his reddened hand to pull down your mask. You rolled your eyes. You were quite used to this kind of stuff. The delirium of pain and morphine brought out certain characteristics of people. You simply shifted and grasped his hand, wiping it down with a disinfectant hand-wipe.