After one of the longest days in the history of med school—a marathon of lectures, labs, and practicals that tested every cell of my nervous system—Mo and I finally stepped out of the college doors. The sun was gone. Only the sodium-yellow glow of the streetlights lit our way. Our white coats hung off our shoulders like war banners—battered, but still flying.

  We were almost there. Almost full-fledged doctors, trained in every medical aspect. Ready to save lives, stitch wounds, and live off coffee for the rest of our lives.

  And what did two almost-doctors do to celebrate?

  Instant noodles. The glorious, unholy indulgence of every broke med student.

  “Irony is eating indomie after diagnosing three GI tract disorders,” Mo muttered, slurping.

  I chuckled, wiping the steam off my glasses. “Honestly? Worth it.”

  Then we stepped to cross the road. Mo, ever the clown, turned to me with a sly grin.

  “Hey. Watch out when you cross the street,” he said, voice suddenly serious.

  “Huh?”

  “Truck-kun might be nearby.”

  I stopped mid-step. “Bro. Who the f—”

  WHAM.

  Metal. Screeching tires. My vision exploded in a flash of white, then—

  Darkness.

  Silence.

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  Then... light.

  When I opened my eyes, I was inside a hospital.

  But not my hospital. This place was wrong.

  The walls were cold, sterile green. The kind of green that made you feel like you were being slowly dissected. The floor shined with a polish that no real hospital bothered with. Fluorescent lights buzzed above in an almost rhythmic pulse.

  Midnight. I could feel it in my bones.

  The air was... too clean. Antiseptic. Like the entire place had been wiped of life.

  That’s when she appeared.

  A Japanese woman—dark hair in a neat bun, flawless white uniform, red cross gleaming on her nurse’s cap—stood in front of me with a clipboard.

  “The surgery your grandfather is about to undergo is high-risk,” she said, her voice soft, almost floating. “If you want to say something before the operation, now is the time.”

  “...My what?” I blinked. “I don’t—what’s happening? Where am I?”

  She didn’t respond. Just turned on her heel and walked down the hallway.

  Like I was supposed to follow.

  So I did.

  We entered the operating ward. Everything was bathed in that hospital-blue tint. Sterile. Still. Silent. In the middle of it all was an old Japanese man on the bed.

  My brain flipped.

  “Am I... in Japan?”

  Before I could even process more, he turned to me.

  “I know me and your father weren’t close,” he said, voice trembling yet strong, “but before he died, he told me to tell you something.”

  He looked me dead in the eye.

  “You have a hidden power inside you. Find a way to manifest it—to save as many people as you can. So that when you die, you can die a happy man.”

  I didn’t breathe.

  “I didn’t know when to tell you... but now feels right. I feel... my time is close.” He smiled faintly. “But maybe I’m wrong. Just in case—I need you to sign this DNR.”

  I didn’t think. I just signed.

  “I’m a doctor,” I said, trying to stand taller. “I can do the surgery. Let me.”

  The nurse placed a firm hand on my chest.

  “You’re a sixteen-year-old high schooler,” she said. “You’re not qualified.”

  She shoved me out before I could argue. The door closed behind me like a prison gate.

  I sat on the bench outside, fists clenched.

  “Where the hell am I?”

  “I am a doctor. Almost, anyway.”

  “Why do I look younger?”

  “What’s my name here?”

  “F*ck you, truck driver.”

  “So that’s Truck-kun…”

  Suddenly, a voice.

  “Yo,” said someone beside me. “I could sense your negativity all the way across the city.”

  I turned—and saw him.

  Tall. White hair. Blindfold.

  A smug grin plastered across his face.

  Satoru. Freaking. Gojo.