Kiryu Kazusuke returned to his apartment building. One of the sound-activated lights in the corridor was broken, flickering on and off.
He took out his keys, opened the door, entered, took off his coat, and hung it on the rack.
But he had barely sat down for two minutes.
Knock, knock, knock—
Someone was knocking on the door.
The knocks were rhythmic, neither hurried nor slow, revealing the caution of the person outside.
Who would be knocking at this hour?
He walked to the door and opened it. Standing outside, as expected, was Saionji Mina.
She had already changed out of her somewhat stiff business attire and into a set of pink loungewear, with a knitted cardigan draped over it.
When she saw the door open, she immediately became even more nervous.
“Um... Dr. Kiryu, good evening.”
“Is something the matter?”
Kiryu Kazusuke leaned against the doorframe, making no move to step aside and let her in.
“Back at the yakiniku restaurant...”
Saionji Mina looked up, quickly glanced at him, then lowered her head again.
“Thank you so very much!”
“If it weren't for you, the section chief would definitely have kept criticizing me.”
“And... um...”
“After you left, the section chief went to the restroom to deal with her clothes, and everyone just dispersed. No one was in the mood to keep drinking.”
“I was finally able to go home too.”
“Usually, at these kinds of gatherings, we have to drink until the last train...”
“Um, this is for you.”
As she spoke, she brought out a convenience store plastic bag from behind her back and held it out to him.
Inside were two bottles of oolong tea for sobering up.
So she had come to thank him.
It seemed this girl wasn't too stupid; she had realized Kiryu Kazusuke was helping her out of a difficult situation.
However, he didn't intend to admit it.
If Saionji Mina got the wrong idea or became dependent on him because of this, that would be bad.
This kind of trouble was best avoided whenever possible.
He was struggling just to keep himself alive; where would he find the energy to shoulder another person's life?
“What are you talking about?”
Kiryu Kazusuke didn't take the bag she offered. He put on a blank expression, playing dumb.
“What help? What section chief?”
“I was drunk just now; you saw it yourself. I couldn't even walk straight. I just accidentally knocked over her beer.”
“If I'd known she was your section chief, I'd have avoided her. Why would I provoke that shrew?”
He rattled off three consecutive denials. After speaking, he shut the door directly.
Saionji Mina was stunned.
The wind from the closing door ruffled the bangs across her forehead.
...
Monday mornings were the most unbearable time of the week for the doctors of the First Surgical Department at Gunma University Medical School Affiliated Hospital.
Seven thirty.
All the doctors, from associate professors to residents, were present. No one dared to be late.
Everyone was busy organizing medical records, terrified of being stumped by the professor during the upcoming rounds and then publicly humiliated.
“Kiryu-kun, you look like you're in good spirits?”
Tanaka Kenji, sporting two massive dark circles under his eyes, leaned over with an envious expression.
Last night, he had been called by Associate Professor Mizutani Koshin to help organize data and worked overtime until late at night. Now he felt like he could drop dead at any moment.
“Not bad. I went to bed early last night.”
Kiryu Kazusuke arranged the medical record binders in his hands in order and replied perfunctorily.
In fact, ever since obtaining a physical constitution upgrade from Saionji Mina, his sleep quality had become excellent.
Right then.
Mizutani Koshin suddenly appeared at the doorway of the physicians' office and clapped his hand against the door.
“What are you all doing? Still not ready!”
“The professor will be here any minute now!”
“Everyone, line up at the elevator immediately!”
“Hurry, hurry, hurry!”
At this command, the physicians' office immediately erupted into chaos.
Dozens of doctors dropped their work and surged into the corridor like a flock of driven ducks, each scrambling to be first.
Kiryu Kazusuke unhurriedly mixed in at the very back of the crowd.
After all, a resident's position was fixed: always at the very end of the line, responsible for carrying medical records and various examination films.
In less than two minutes.
In the corridor outside the First Surgical Department ward area, two rows of doctors in white coats had already formed two lines according to seniority.
Ding—
The elevator doors slowly opened.
Everyone instinctively held their breath, straightened their backs, and lowered their heads slightly.
A black high-heeled shoe stepped out.
Following it was a tailored skirt suit, draped over with a finely made white coat. On the collar was pinned a gold-rimmed name badge representing the identity of a professor.
Nishimura Sumika.
The Empress of the First Surgical Department.
“Good morning, Professor!”
Uniform greetings echoed through the corridor.
Professor Nishimura nodded slightly in acknowledgment.
She didn't stop. She walked straight ahead with extremely quick strides, bringing a gust of cold air with her.
Associate Professors Mizutani and Takeda immediately followed her closely, falling into step half a body length behind her on either side.
“Professor, today's round order has already been arranged.”
“First the VIP ward, then the ICU, and finally the general ward.”
Mizutani Koshin obediently spoke in a low voice from behind, maintaining a half-step distance, not daring to overstep in the slightest.
“Hmm.”
Professor Nishimura merely hummed a single syllable through her nose.
The entourage immediately set into motion.
Over a dozen doctors followed grandly behind, their leather shoes striking the marble floor and producing that heart-stopping “clack-clack” sound.
A long white dragon slowly moved along the corridor.
This was the materialization of power.
At this moment, Nishimura Sumika was the god of this floor.
You see, in Japan, doctors weren't directly employed by the hospital like in the neighboring great power; they belonged to the university medical bureau.
In other words, the professor held ownership over the doctors.
All affiliated hospitals—that is, those public or private hospitals distributed across various prefectures, cities, and even remote towns—had their personnel arrangements controlled by the university medical bureau.
If the professor wanted you to go somewhere, you had to go.
If you displeased the professor?
Then, sorry to say, you'd be sent deep into some mountain forest where there wasn't even a convenience store, to spend the rest of your life manning a tiny clinic with only old grandpas and grandmas.
Kiryu Kazusuke walked at the rear, holding five or six medical record binders in his arms.
He looked at the backs of the heads of those ahead of him, his heart utterly calm, even somewhat amused.
How was this any different from the retainers of a feudal era?
Wanting reform?
That was a matter for ten years later.
It wasn't until 2004 that the Ministry of Health, Labor and Welfare would implement the “New Clinical Training System.”
At that time, residents would no longer directly belong to a specific medical bureau. Instead, they would need to rotate through multiple departments—internal medicine, surgery, anesthesiology, emergency medicine, and others—for two years.
Although this caused the university medical bureau's control over young doctors to decrease, and also gave rise to new problems such as “healthcare collapse” and “physician maldistribution.”
But to a large extent, it truly broke this feudal relationship of personal bondage.
But right now, it was 1994.
The professor was god.
The procession stopped in front of the VIP ward on the sixth floor.
Although the son of Congressman Ōkawara had already been transferred to another hospital, according to protocol, the professor still needed to personally check in to show regard.
Nishimura Sumika stopped in front of the room that had once housed young Master Ōkawara.
The door was open; inside was already empty.
Mizutani bent at the waist, stepped slightly closer, and began to report in a low voice.
“Congressman Ōkawara was worried about media harassment affecting the hospital's normal operations, so he arranged a transfer late last night to return to Tokyo for recuperation.”
“The patient's indicators are all stable. The surgery to remove the abdominal packing will be handled by colleagues at the University of Tokyo.”
“The congressman is very satisfied with our treatment and specifically asked me to convey his thanks to you.”
“He also indicated that next year's research sponsorship funds will prioritize the First Surgical Department.”
Hearing these words, Professor Nishimura's expression softened slightly.
“Hmm. Well done.”
She nodded and offered a word of praise.
Ōkawara Gentarō was a powerful figure in the ruling party. With his support, next year's medical bureau budget for research funds and equipment procurement plans should proceed much more smoothly.
And she stood to gain more herself as well.
After all, no one ever thought they had too much money.