Inky black hair stirs softly in the air as the doors begin to shut behind him, lifting upward from a tense forehead where thick, dark brows slant together. The red thread between them begins to glow scarlet, and Kisa wonders for a brief moment if its material is naturally bioluminescent before her thoughts slow to a crawl at the sight of his deep green eyes—as if she is staring into a forest of raw emotion. No eyes that she has ever seen match that shade. Such raw, undiluted color should not be possible. There is something familiar about him, she thinks as a peculiar feeling overtakes her chest. It’s an insistent tug that makes her gasp, then what feels like an almost mechanical shifting of parts and pieces into place, clicking together to produce an odd feeling of…fullness?

Perhaps it’s heartburn, Kisa thinks vaguely, still captivated by those eyes. The man opens his mouth…

And time is no longer a slow, sluggish thing. Behind Kisa, Hajun is roaring a battle cry—and then the paperweight is flying through the air, a heavy glass orb that smashes into the side of the man’s head before either of them has time to react. Kisa gasps as the man stumbles backward, slips on the polished tiles, and crashes to the shattered glass littering the floor.

For a very long moment, the entire sick bay is very silent.

The red thread, almost abashedly, slowly stops glowing and sways awkwardly in the air.

“Ergggkgggk,” groans the beautiful man on the ground.

Kisa, jerked out of her reverie, spins around to glare at Hajun. “Did it look like he was about to attack me?” she demands. “Really, Hajun—”

The idol runs a hand through his messy ash-brown hair. “Uh,” says Hajun, suddenly looking extremely guilty. “I, um, I panicked?”

Gritting her teeth, Kisa forces her brain to launch into doctor mode. She’s attempted to form many theories explaining why the dead can feel pain and be injured (rapid soul-adaptation to a hostile environment?), but it seems that it’s simply because they are used to it and expect to be hurt when struck. If they could turn off that expectancy…Kisa pushes aside the thought.

Whatever the reason, this gorgeous—this man is hurt. After forcing her limbs to unlock, Dr. Yoo Kisa hurries to his side, leaning above him. His right temple is bleeding, and shattered glass dusts his dark hair like snow. There is something wrong, something off about the scene, but Kisa is far too frazzled to dissect it. “Hajun,” she snaps, “cloth. Now.”