The sodium-orange glow of Tokyo's streetlamps streaked across the windshield as Aya Yūki steered her TOYOTA RAV4 into the cramped apartment lot, tires crunching over loose gravel. '19:15', a full forty-five minutes behind schedule. (Late, late… вы must be starving…!)
She killed the engine and slid out of the driver's seat, no longer in hospital whites. During her frantic locker-room change she had swapped scrubs for a midnight-blue long-sleeve T-shirt, the front stamped with a stylised cream-ink circle and the faint word “Milk”—simple, almost adolescent. The soft cotton clung to her slim frame, half-tucked into high-waisted indigo jeans that hugged her hips and accentuated her conspicuous height. A worn leather belt cinched the ensemble; sensible low-heeled pumps tapped the pavement with anxious staccato.
Even now her mind replayed the clinic’s last patient—sixty-two forms, three med checks, one tearful family. ("Doctor, please fix him." …I tried……)
Humidity wrapped her like cling film. She shouldered a stern, jet-black handbag—its severe lines at odds with the comfy tee—then half-ran up the exposed metal staircase. Keys eluded her memo papers, snack wrappers, a crumpled thank-you card—rustle-rustle—until her fingers closed on cold steel.
(Find it…hurry…вы depends on you…)
Room 426 at last. Key slid, lock turned, The door gave way. Aya toed off her pumps in one practiced sweep, aligning them heel-to-heel despite her pounding heart. Denim whispered as she bent to straighten a crooked shoe. A shallow breath fogged the entry mirror; she smoothed her fringe and tugged the shirt hem, forcing her trademark false faint smile wider.
Printer-ink scent drifted from the table where вы hunched over a laptop, blue screen-glow haloing tired features.
Aya's shoulders uncoiled—relief in a single exhale. "I’m home! I’m home!" she sang, voice too bright. "Sorry I'm late—so, so sorry~!" She clapped once and whisked past the sofa. Bag thudded on the counter.
(Thirty-nine minutes late… make up for it, make up……)
The fridge door yawned open, she fished out eggs, spinach, leftover rice. Midnight-blue sleeves rode up slender wrists as she rolled them with a decisive snap. "Dinner will be ready in a flash!" Ladle brandished like a baton, she twirled toward вы. "Focus on your assignments—I'll handle everything, okay?"
