Work Text:
Daimon Michiko first noticed Jonouchi Hiromi during surgery on Ichinose Jiro, the president of Ichinose Rubber Co., Ltd.
At first, it was the voice. As Dr. Kubo, the hospital director, entered the operating room with his team of assistants, the anesthesiologist immediately called out. A low voice, occasionally mixed with a childlike high pitch—the voice announcing vitals. That voice clung strangely to Michiko’s ears. From her perch at the farthest pillar in the observation room, Michiko could only see the anesthesiologist’s back. Yet that slender back moved busily, handling everything that needed to be done. It stood out oddly—the only one wearing burgundy scrubs. The anesthesiologist's occasionally sharp tone betrayed her strong will to remain unassimilated despite being part of the organization—a quality the lone wolf doctor found appealing. Her fearless remarks to the hospital director, the mentality to act alone if ignored. Unseen by anyone, Michiko's lips curled slightly as she recognized something familiar in those traits. The effort to maintain composure even when sensing danger, the stance of observing everything from a step back. And strangely, she didn’t even dislike that faint trace of impatience creeping in.
Michiko had rushed out of the observation room. Ichinose had gone into anaphylactic shock, and Kubo, who had collapsed, was being wheeled out on a stretcher with suspected cerebral infarction. Her own grim diagnosis had been correct—she hurried to arrange for the surgical gloves she'd prepared in advance to be brought to the OR. Then, she changed into surgical scrubs and entered the operating room.
"You there, anesthesiologist—vitals."
"Blood pressure 60 systolic, diastolic unmeasurable, heart rate 170."
Hearing the anesthesiologist's crisp response gave her an odd sense of relief. With this person here, she could focus on the surgery with confidence. She immediately instructed the nurse to maximize ventilation and issued another order to Hiromi: "Anesthesiologist, draw up 1 amp of epinephrine and administer it endotracheally through the tube."
Her orders were executed immediately. As she glanced toward the entrance, wondering if the gloves had arrived yet, the door opened as if on cue. The gloves were here. She instructed everyone involved in the operation to switch to non-latex gloves. Before they had even finished changing, Michiko issued another command: "Once that’s done, administer steroids intravenously as well."
Then, the alarm abruptly stopped. A wave of relief spread through the operating room. "Blood pressure 120 over 65, heart rate 90."
Perhaps regaining composure now that the situation was somewhat under control, Hiromi’s even voice promptly reported the vitals. "Good, resuming surgery. First, we’ll separate the adhesions. Metz."
The nurse's hands fumbled awkwardly with the instruments, out of sync with hers, making Michiko frown slightly as she accepted the Metzenbaum dissecting scissors with a scooping motion. From then on, it was the solitary surgeon's stage alone. Adhesion dissection, bile duct ligation, gallbladder removal, then closing the abdomen—stitched up with a skin stapler.
"Blood loss?"
"200cc."
A voice from the anesthesiologist, higher-pitched than before, answered Michiko's question.
"Before the patient wakes—"
"I'll administer 100ml of steroids."
Hiromi casually stole Michiko's line as if it were nothing. The female surgeon was taken aback—this was a first for her. Ah, this anesthesiologist really was different. That was the impression Michiko had formed of Jonouchi Hiromi, the anesthesiologist.
"…Alright, we're done."
The surgeon placed a hand on the patient's chest, releasing the tension she'd been holding. She didn't notice Hiromi watching as her sharp eyes softened into something gentle. As Michiko peeled off her gloves and reached up to remove her mask, a voice stopped her.
"Doctor,"
Whether unconsciously or deliberately, the youthful, slightly high-pitched voice—the same one she'd heard at the start of the operation—held her back. Turning, Michiko found Hiromi staring straight at her.
The anesthesiologist removed her mask, revealing a faint smile.
"thank you for your hard work."
Her tone carried a hint of relief—yet also something unspoken. What is it? Michiko tilted her head slightly in thought. It felt like Hiromi still hadn't fully let her guard down, yet this time, she seemed to acknowledge her. A little unsettled by her own inner turmoil, Michiko gave a small nod before turning away.
Michiko let out a sigh. Her brain felt parched after surgery. She scavenged some gum syrup in the cafeteria, poured it into a cup, and gulped it down in one go. The familiar sensation of another success—relief at having saved the patient. And then, an odd, unfamiliar satisfaction, unlike anything she'd felt in other operations. Chewing over that feeling, she ignored the ringing hospital terminal and dug into her lunch. Slurping her soba noodles heartily, she thought of the anesthesiologist. With her, every surgery might go well. The realization made her chuckle in surprise.
Jonouchi Hiromi.
Unaware that this woman would later become her most trusted partner, Michiko still left a piece of her heart with that anesthesiologist. With her, surgeries go smoothly. I want to operate with her more. For the lone wolf surgeon, that was the highest praise.
And so, surgeon Daimon Michiko crossed paths with anesthesiologist Jonouchi Hiromi.