Chapter Text
Pain arrived before consciousness.
It wasn’t sharp. Sharp pain had edges. This was dense, suffocating — a weight pressing through muscle and bone alike, as if gravity had chosen him specifically to punish.
Toji inhaled and felt something inside his chest protest violently.
So he wasn’t dead.
He forced his eyes open.
White light flooded his vision, sterile and unforgiving. A ceiling stared back at him — blank, smooth, real.
Memory dragged itself into place piece by piece: rain slicking the pavement, an engine roaring too loud, headlights too close, impact.
Metal folding.
Silence.
He tried to shift and immediately regretted the decision.
Pain bloomed everywhere at once, hot and absolute.
A voice reached him then — soft, steady, close.
“You shouldn’t move yet.”
Toji turned his head.
And forgot the pain entirely.
A woman stood beside his bed adjusting the line in his arm.
Pale blue scrubs. Hair loosely tied back. A few strands had escaped and rested against her cheek.
The harsh overhead lights softened around her like they’d been instructed to behave.
She looked up and noticed him watching.
Her expression changed — relief, calm, something warm that didn’t belong in a room like this.
“Good,” she said gently. “You’re awake.”
Toji stared at her in silence for several seconds.
Then, voice raw and dry, he asked:
“…So this is it?”
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Heaven,” he clarified. “Didn’t expect fluorescent lighting.”
For a moment she simply looked at him.
Then a quiet laugh escaped her,surprised, genuine.
“You’re not dead,” she said. “You were in a motorcycle accident. You’re very lucky.”
Lucky.
He studied her face carefully, searching for signs of distortion or dreamlike blur. Nothing flickered. Nothing dissolved. Every detail remained painfully real — the softness of her expression, the calm precision in her hands, the absence of fear in her gaze.
“…You’re not an angel?” he asked.
“No.”
“Just checking.”
She shook her head faintly, though the ghost of a smile lingered.
“I’m Shiori. You were unconscious for almost a day. Do you remember your name?”
He did.
But something about the way she asked made the answer feel heavier than it should have.
“…Toji.”
“Well, Toji,” she said, checking his monitors, “you have multiple fractures but no life-threatening injuries. You’ll need to stay here for observation.”
He watched her while she spoke.
No hesitation. No discomfort. No attempt to fill silence with meaningless chatter. She moved with quiet confidence, as if chaos had no authority in her presence.
It was… unfamiliar.
“Why are you being nice?” he asked.
Her hands paused briefly.
“Because you’re my patient.”
“That’s not a reason.”
She met his eyes fully then.
“Sometimes it is.”
Silence settled between them, not tense — simply present.
Toji had lived among hostility long enough to recognize its absence immediately. Her gentleness was not forced. Not performative. Not cautious.
It was simply there.
He didn’t know what to do with that.
She adjusted the blanket covering him, careful not to disturb his injuries. Her touch was practical, controlled — but careful in a way he’d never experienced.
As if damage mattered,as if he did.
“…Did I cause trouble?” he muttered after a while.
“You were unconscious,” she said. “So no.”
He expected her to leave.
She didn’t.
Instead, she continued checking his chart, remaining within reach but not intrusive. The quiet rhythm of her presence filled the room more completely than any sound.
Toji watched her profile, committing details to memory without meaning to — the concentration in her brow, the relaxed line of her shoulders, the way she existed without tension.
If this was dying, he understood the appeal.