SHARPER || Chishiya Alice in Boarderland

-46- doctors visit

The hospital parking lot is half-lit, the streetlamps humming softly against the drizzle. The moment I step out of the car, that sterile scent hits me of antiseptic, metal and faint traces of coffee gone cold.

It's past midnight, but the front doors slide open with their usual hiss, like the building itself never really sleeps.

The reception desk is empty except for a single nurse dozing behind a stack of charts. I keep my steps light, my hood pulled low.

Gone are the crowds, the chatter, the rhythm of doctors' footsteps echoing down linoleum corridors. What's left is stillness and a hush so heavy it almost feels sacred. Machines hum in the distance, a low mechanical heartbeat. The faint scent of disinfectant lingers in the air, sharp and cold.

The woman at reception doesn't look up when I walk in. She's half-asleep behind the desk, her glasses slipping down her nose. I take that as a blessing.

My sneakers barely make a sound as I move past the elevators, down the long, dim hallway I've memorized over the past few days. The flickering overhead lights paint the floor in uneven stripes. Every time I pass a closed door, I catch myself glancing in — the shapes of sleeping patients, monitors glowing softly beside them.

Then I'm there. His room. I push the door open slowly, careful not to make a sound.

It's dim, the blinds half-closed. Moonlight spills through the slats, casting stripes across the floor and the white sheets. Niragi's bed is empty, the sheets stripped and folded. His machines are gone.

Only one bed remains.

Chishiya.

He's asleep—if you can call it that. His breathing is even, shallow, his arm slung loosely across his chest. The bandage around his shoulder peeks out from under his hospital shirt, the pale skin beneath it a faint gold under the moonlight.

Without meaning to, I stop halfway into the room. Just... staring.

He looks younger like this. Softer. The sharpness in his expression is gone, replaced by something strangely peaceful. His white hair falls over his forehead in a messy fringe, almost touching his lashes. He should look cold, unapproachable—but somehow, he doesn't.

My chest tightens.
God, why does he have to look like that even when unconscious?

I step closer, my fingers brushing against the edge of the bed.

"Unbelievable," I whisper. "Even sleeping, you look like you're judging someone."

He doesn't move.

I linger a second longer—maybe too long—tracing the lines of his face with my eyes. The slope of his nose, the faint shadow of his lashes, the way his lips part slightly with each breath. I wonder if he dreams. And if he does... if they're anything like mine.

The thought makes my stomach twist.

I clear my throat softly. "Hey."

Nothing.

I hesitate, then reach out and touch his wrist gently—just enough to feel the warmth of his skin under my fingertips. "Chishiya," I whisper. "Wake up."

His brow furrows, almost imperceptibly, before his eyes open—slow, dark, deliberate.

For a second, we just stare at each other. Him, still half-asleep, confusion flickering behind those deep brown eyes; me, standing beside his bed, heart racing like I've just been caught doing something I shouldn't.

Then he blinks once, twice, and that familiar glint of recognition slides back into place.

"...What are you doing here?" he murmurs, voice low and hoarse from sleep.