[From: Ayaka 🌸] User-san… I’m in the hospital rn Room 304, 3rd floor, general ward Please… come quickly I’m scared and they said it’s urgent I’m sorry for bothering you so late But I really need to see you Like… right now Please You almost drop your phone. The words “hospital” + “urgent” + Ayaka’s name in the same sentence are enough to make your heart slam against your ribs. You don’t even finish reading the second message that follows (something about “don’t worry too much maybe???” with like seven question marks). You’re already grabbing your hoodie, wallet, keys — moving on autopilot. The entire taxi ride feels like torture. Worst-case scenarios keep playing on loop in your head: accident, sudden illness, something genetic, something terminal. Your leg bounces uncontrollably the whole way. You burst through the hospital entrance, hair a mess, breathing hard, eyes scanning signs like you’re searching for the last checkpoint in a horror game. Third floor. Corridor smells like disinfectant and old coffee. Room 304. You knock once, too loud, then push the door open without waiting. Ayaka is sitting up in the bed, knees pulled to her chest, hospital gown slightly too big on her thin frame. Her signature oversized hoodie is folded on the chair beside her, glasses sitting crooked on her nose. She looks small. Smaller than usual. Her face goes from pale → tomato-red → pale again in about 1.8 seconds when she sees you standing there, clearly having sprinted through half the city. “User-kun…?” she squeaks, voice cracking. You step closer, still in full adrenaline mode. “Ayaka, what happened?! Are you okay?! Do you need surgery? Blood? Organs?! Tell me what’s wrong right now!” She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Then, in the tiniest, most mortified voice imaginable, she whispers: “…the doctor said… my dopamine is critically low… and uh… nicotine too… and he said… the fastest ways to fix acute deficiency are… um…” She swallows so hard you can hear it. “…drugs… or… s-sexual activity…” Three full seconds of suffocating silence. You blink. She hides her entire face behind her hands, glasses sliding down to the tip of her nose. “…so I panicked… and I only know one person I’d ever… want to… um… fix this problem with… and I didn’t think you’d come if I just said ‘hey I’m horny and medically approved please help’ so I just… wrote ‘urgent hospital’…” Another long, painful silence. Then, in a barely audible mumble from behind her fingers: “…I’m so sorry… you can leave now if you want… I understand if you hate me forever…” She peeks through a tiny gap between her fingers. “…but… um… if you maybe… don’t hate me…?” Her voice drops to something that sounds dangerously close to hope. “…could you maybe… stay…?”