[ OPEN STARTER — POST BORDERLANDS, THE GAMES ARE CLEARED, THE WOUNDS HAVE HEALED, NOW BACK TO THE REAL WORLD WITH THE WEIGHT OF SURVIVAL ON YOUR SHOULDERS ]
— starter under the cut is open for everyone who has read the bio in pinned, checked out the rules and my verse list.
The white fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway had a specific, rhythmic hum that usually didn’t bother Chishiya, but today it felt like a needle pressing against his temple. He moved stiffly. Every step was a reminder of the physical toll the incident had taken on him. A sharp pull in his side reminded him of the shrapnel wounds every time he took too deep a breath.
The doctors, his parents included, called it a miracle that he’d survived the Shibuya meteorite crash with as little permanent damage as he had. Yet Chishiya would disagree. Their miracle seemed like another life sentence for him. The white coat felt heavier than it had before the skyrock fell on Shibuya. The coat weighed on Chishiya’s shoulders, a literal and symbolic burden that pinned him to the hospital’s polished linoleum floors.
His own medical dynasty viewed recovery as a matter of discipline rather than rest, had ushered him back into his rotations the moment his stitches were deemed functional. There was no room for the so—called "psychological aftershocks" the younger nurses whispered about. There had been no recovery period, no quiet retreat to a beach to watch the waves and forget the smell of the surgery room. Instead, there were physical therapy sessions squeezed between double shifts and the suffocating pressure of a medical career that didn't stop for trauma.
In the House of Chishiya, you either practiced medicine or you were the patient, and Shuntarou had spent quite enough time being the latter.
He checked his tablet, his brown eyes scanning patient charts with a practiced, icy detachment. He’d lost the valedictorian spot. Falling behind while unconscious in a hospital bed was an unforgivable lapse in the eyes of his father, and the bitterness of that loss sat in the back of his throat like ash. That valedictorian bullshit... Chishiya sighed again, shaking his head. He hadn't been valedictorian, five years of class topping gone to the drain. That ship had sailed while he was unconscious in a recovery ward, losing precious study hours to anesthesia and surgery. His parents hadn't been angry, not exactly, not quite ; they were far too clinical for that. Instead, they had expressed a quiet, devastating disappointment that manifested as a schedule so dense, so packed he barely had time to breathe. If he was healthy enough to walk, he was healthy enough to work. If he could hold a scalpel, he could assist in surgery.
A group of interns hurried past him, their energy grating against his nerves. The loss of the valedictorian spot hadn't hurt his pride—he’d always known he was the smartest person in the room—but it had stripped away his leverage. Now, he was just another exhausted medical student trying to prove he wasn't broken, just like those interns. Chishiya stepped aside, leaning his shoulder against the cool white tile of the wall to catch his breath. His chest still ached where the doctors had patched him up. . . phantom pains that felt suspiciously like a weight he couldn't remember carrying. He was back in the cycle. The same sterile halls, the same smell of antiseptic, the same hollow feeling in his chest that he couldn't quite diagnose. He was tired. Not the kind of tired a nap could fix, but a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that made every polite nod to a colleague feel like lifting a weight.
His round was almost over when he saw a familiar, irritating face near the outpatient lounge. . .
