Warfare Augmented Intelligent Frame Unit

Chapter 163 - Pimple-Popping Twist

Chapter 163 – Pimple-Popping Twist 

Have I ever told you that Hazel owns a clinic just a stone's throw away from her beach resort? It still blows my mind. Back in school, she was the quiet classmate who barely spared me a glance, and now here she is—managing not just a resort but her very own clinic as well. Sometimes I can't help but feel a little envious. She's still in college, yet she's already playing life on the highest difficulty and somehow winning with ease.

Anyway, Ephraim and I ended up being ferried straight to that clinic after our little accident. Myrrh clung to my side like a worried guardian, while Clarisse mirrored her role beside Ephraim. The place itself smelled faintly of disinfectant, the kind of crisp, clean scent that makes you feel both reassured and slightly uneasy.

I found myself lying on a stark white bed, the sheets cool against my back, while the doctor leaned over to inspect my injury. With deft fingers, he peeled open a band-aid and pressed it onto my forehead. The sting of alcohol lingered faintly, but the bleeding had already stopped by then.

"There," the doctor said, straightening up with a small nod. "You're all good now, Mister Callahan. The wound was shallow—it had already stopped bleeding before you even got here. Still, better safe than sorry."

"What happened to him, Doc?" Myrrh asked, her voice edged with worry. Her eyes were fixed on me as if I were moments away from death's door.

The doctor gave the most deadpan reply imaginable. "His forehead pimple got popped by the volleyball."

I blinked. "That's it?" I asked, one hand rising instinctively to touch the little square band-aid that now crowned my forehead.

"That's it," the doctor confirmed, his tone utterly serious.

Myrrh didn't seem convinced. "What about Ephraim?" she pressed, her brows knitting together.

"I'll go check on him next," the doctor replied, already moving toward the door. Then he paused and glanced back at her with a raised brow. "Care to come along?"

Myrrh glanced at me, then shook her head at the doctor. "No. I'll stay here."

"Make sure to drink lots of water. You seem a little dehydrated from the heat," the doctor called over his shoulder as he finally stepped out of the room. The door clicked shut and the clinic's quiet hummed back into place.

"Yeah. Thanks, Doc," I said, fingers finding the soft circle of the bandage on my forehead. 

I could feel the faint ridge where the ruptured pimple had been — the one I'd been hiding under my bangs since the vacation began. Now that it was exposed, it made sense why the impact hadn't felt as bad; the volleyball had hit skin that was already tender and ready to give.

"It's just a pimple, huh," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else.

Myrrh couldn't hold it in. Laughter bubbled up the way it always did when she tried not to be dramatic. "Pffft! Ahahaha!"

I let out a laugh too, the sound loosening the last of the tension in my shoulders. "Hahahaha."

She gave my arm a playful slap. "Seriously, you made me worry for a second there, Zaft! I thought you were gonna die... again."

"With that pimple-popping embarrassment," I said, smiling, "I kinda hoped I'd die for good." The joke landed between us like a fragile breath, and for a moment the clinic felt impossibly ordinary and safe.

"Hey, don't say that!" Myrrh scolded, but the scold softened into a smile as she pushed herself up. "It must be lunchtime. I'm famished — let's hop back to the party and eat!" Her voice had that careless, bright lilt that made it impossible to stay grim for long.