There's a cacophony of noise in the hallway. It accompanies the blaring sound of the TV drama you have going on in the background, coupled with the blasting of the kettle on the kitchen countertop. But you're too tired to go out and shout at the neighbors for throwing a party this late at night, so you just go along with, hoping that the horrible EDM mix they plan on putting on at 3 AM will be the aspirin to take your pounding headache away.

While the kettle is spitting out water, you're busy at the stove, stirring away at the pot of soup before you. The sharp scents of onion and ginger tickle your nostrils, but it's nothing compared to the bites of the chilis you threw in earlier. The broth has gone a beautiful golden brown, and you smile to yourself, content with your creation.

The MC in the TV drama is now loudly proclaiming their love, at what you can imagine is a very shocked love interest, some college girl who's "too ordinary" to have someone fall in love with her. You sneak a glance at the screen, feeling pride within when you see that you're right; despite your complete lack of interest in such pointless depictions of love, it's quite amazing to you how entertainment companies seem to get the formula for these dramas right all the time.

The cacophony in the hallway has grown louder and much closer; you can feel it pricking at your temples. Maybe it's about time you had a word with the landlady about your neighbors' behavior.

You switch the kettle off, looking at it alarmingly when its underbelly starts to glow a bright red, the color of those carnations you often see in patients' bouquets. Going back to your soup, you lift the ladle to your lips, allowing yourself a little taste of your meal. The sweetly sourness pricks at the tip of your tongue, but you can feel warmth flood through the entire cavity of your mouth, a low moan resonating at the base of your throat. This is well worth the headache.

A loud, ear-piercing knock hammers away at your door, and you nearly drop the ladle into the soup in shock, which wouldn't have been a pretty incident if not for your quick thinking. You mutter curses underneath your breath as you place the ladle on the side, switching off the stove and wiping your hands on your skirt. It's got to be some drunk party-goers who mistook your door for the adjacent one, but you argue that even drunk people can tell the difference between 91 and 92.

The knocking continues, this time in a more frantic manner. "Coming, coming!" you yell in response, when you stop to fix your hair in the mirror. You may be irritated with the majority of the human population today, but you can't answer the door looking like it.

You shuffle to the door, the soles of your now-faded pink bunny slippers rubbing against the carpet and making that sound which would have earned you a pinch from your mother if she heard you. Remembering that the drama on the TV is still going on, you mute it before you make way to the doorpost. Your hands fumble around the little bowl you kept near it, your fingers moving around the little ceramic thing in a search for your keys. You nearly whoop in joy when your index and middle fingers wrap around the keyring, and you pull them out, dangling them in front of you like a jeweler displaying his creations.

You unlock your door, once and then twice (you really can't take any chances in this part of Tokyo), and swing it open.

"Party's next door-"

"I'm deeply sorry about disturbing what seems like a busy night for you," says the gentleman with the slicked back hair, his face sweaty and grimy at the sides. You could reckon that he looked better during the day. "But your boyfriend's been shot and needs your help."
You look at him, blinking expressionlessly. The figure with the unkempt sandy brown top murmurs something inaudible, but doesn't lift its head up. That's...my boyfriend?

You can't help but scrunch your nose a little.

"Ma'am?" the man says again, snapping your attention back to him. He's dressed in a fine suit, one that you can only imagine is from a bespoke tailor or a boutique. His eyes are dark brown, but they're warm and stern, similar to your superior's back at the hospital. His voice is strangely very calm, which is the opposite to what you expected to hear when someone says their friend's been shot. "I understand your disgust at seeing your boyfriend like this-trust me, he looked better this morning-but he really needs your help."

"I..." you begin, your voice trailing off as you gulp. "I think you have the wrong apartment," you manage to say, after a moment's silence. "He's not my boyfriend. I...uh...don't have one." You let out a weak chuckle, rubbing the back of your head sheepishly.

The warmth in the gentleman's eyes disappears for a brief moment, fleetingly replaced by shock when the outline of his mouth forms a small "Oh". His expression reverts back to its default solemn state, and he clears his throat to excuse himself before he bends his head to his partner's level, whispering, "Isn't this your apartment?'

"You dumb fuck, I said 259-ZERO!" his partner yells in exasperation, a few drops of blood leaving his mouth and falling onto the carpet. His eyes are pained yet angry. You've seen that look in teens who've had to stop drunken brawls way too many times. "This is 259-ONE! The next one over. Did you buy your reading comprehension department in school?" He's scowling at his partner, who for some strange reason, still maintains his composure. If that were you you'd be near tears now.

"Please don't yell, Kato-san. You're only going to bleed more," is his relaxed reply, and he turns his eyes back to you. "I'm sorry for disturbing you," he says, bowing his head slightly in apology. "I'll take him to his own apartment now-"

"I'm a nurse!" you blurt out, regretting the times you zoned out of your mother's lectures to think before you talk when you were younger. "I can help."

The gentleman blinks once, but silently nods his head. You step aside as he stumbles into the apartment, his partner staggering along with him. Upon closer inspection you can see that his partner's blazer is stained with blood, and that's left a large, dark splotch against the black suit jacket of his. The gentleman spots your couch, which is covered in too many blankets and ragged towels, but he makes no notice of the mess. He places his partner on the couch, propping him up against an armrest.

You close the door behind you, locking it twice before you follow behind them. You're no longer shuffling; this time you're careful about your tread and the little version of you in your head is very happy.

You stand behind the suited gentleman wordlessly, until he turns around to face you. "Ma'am?" he inquires, and your spirits have been woken up again.

"Oh fuck, I forgot!" you exclaim, before you race into your room, pulling out the first aid kit from the drawer. You grab a pair of sterilized tweezers from the station you kept near your study table, and a pair of surgical gloves from the nightstand. You can hear his partner groan in pain in the living room, and you suck in your breath as you nearly stumble on your bedroom landing in a hurry.

You're nearly out of breath when you come to his partner's side, whose gloved hand is pressed against his left side, in an effort to not make the blood spill. It's something done in vain, but its effort nonetheless.

"You can remove your hand now," you say softly, pointing to his hand. With a suppressed groan he does so, lifting his gloved hand ever so slowly. You take out a swab of cotton from the first aid kit and begin to clean the area around the bullet's entry, your hand steady as a mother's on a child's back. Breathing in slowly, you take out the sterilized tweezers, pressing the tips against each other in a repeated fashion and smiling pleasantly to yourself as you do so. "I still got it," you murmur in satisfaction, and see his partner roll his eyes at you.

"I'd be surprised if you didn't," he mutters, and you shoot him a look.

"Look here buddy," you begin, raising your eyebrow at him. "I've known you for about thirty minutes now, but that's more than enough for me to decide whether I want to to pluck your eyeballs out or not. So if you keep that attitude up, you'll go blind." He fixes you with a cold stare. "Let me enjoy my successes, however small they may be."

"Please get this bullet out of me," he replies instead, looking away. Out of spite, you press the tips of the tweezers again, before you begin to lean over his torso, positioning yourself in a good spot to take the bullet out. You whisper a small prayer to whatever god is listening out there, and push the tweezers into his flesh slowly, wincing when you hear him hiss softly.

The tweezers grasp onto something hard, slipping against the surface as they do so. With a calm and steady hand you grasp firmly onto it, and pull out the bullet slowly, careful not to make any small tears around the area as you do so. The sandy-haired man lets out a sigh of relief when he sees the blood-covered bullet, his body relaxing slightly; his posture is one of a woman who's just given birth.

You deposit the bullet on the metal tray beside you, and place the tweezers next to it before you take out a needle and some thread. It's a small thing, round and sleek-not the type you were used to seeing in most situations. You can see him flinch slightly when you bring them closer, and you can't help but give him a reassuring smile in response.

"One minute, tops."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Maybe she wants you to feel better," pipes up the suited gentleman, who's been silent this entire time. You turn your gaze towards him and notice that the grime and sweat from before is gone. When did he clean himself?

"Maybe I want you to stop talking," his partner snaps back, giving him a look. "But I don't always get what I want."

"I haven't been talking this entire time." He's aloof as ever, not allowing himself to be affected by his partner's harsh comments.

"Shut up."

You figure your head is going to fall off with all the repeated turning you do from him to his partner on the couch, so you turn attention back to the wound. While the two of them bicker, the suited gentleman's responses still so calm and composed-how on Earth does he do it?-as his partner bites back and grumbles underneath his breath every few seconds or so, you get to work on the stitches, trying your best to keep them small and neat, and most importantly, tight enough so they don't rip open in the future. He doesn't seem to notice you at work, and is now commenting on the drama that still continues on the TV, not caring about how it's muted.

"You're just like that MC," he points out, as you complete the last set of stitches. "Always throwing wads of cash at people. I'm surprised you didn't throw cash at her when you knocked on the door; it seems to be your default setting."

"That's because she was kind enough to deny you were her boyfriend," the suited gentleman replies, and you wince in embarrassment. "Frankly, I understand why. If I was told you were my boyfriend, I'd deny it too. You're too rough around the edges for my taste."

"As if I would ever date the likes of you."

"You don't have to."

"Done!" you exclaim in joy, looking up happily as they're about to launch into what seems like the fifth argument they've had since they entered. The sandy-haired man turns his eyes back to you. You heave sighs in relief as you slump down, your back coming in contact with the coffee table behind you. You give them both a satisfied smile, your hand knocking down the first aid kit next to you. You can't care less for the bandages and rolls of gauze that spilled out. That's a job for the morning.

His partner sits up, his hand coming to the side out of instinct. You can see the pain that passes in his eyes but he does his best to hide it, and he clears his throat before he addresses you. "Thanks so much," he says, his voice slightly pained. "We're sorry about the disturbance we caused. If there's anything we can do to pay you back-"

"Oh no, it's okay," you reply sheepishly with a warm heart. "It's better than having to deal with drunk strangers. I'm just doing my duty."

"See?" he snaps again, looking at the suited gentleman. "She's doing her duty. Why can't you even do yours properly?"

"But I am," is the aloof reply.

Not wanting for them to get into yet another argument, you interject, with too much glee that it even shocks you. "Soup!" you exclaim, remembering the heavenly creation you were tending to earlier.

They both turn their attention to you, the sandy-haired man raising his eyebrows questioningly. "Soup?" he asks, cocking his head to the side.

You nod in response. "I have soup for dinner, would you like some?" you offer, as you get to your feet. You dust your hands off your skirt, before straightening up your body and giving them both a large smile. They look to each other, before the sandy-haired man nods warily. "Yeah," he replies, sitting up straight. "Soup would be nice."

*

The three of you eat in silence, with you trying your best to not sneak glances at the both of them. You're seated on a chair you pulled from the dining table in the kitchen, while the suited gentleman and his partner sit on the couch on top of the mountain of blankets and towels. You make a mental note to clean that up later.

"Ah, we forgot to introduce ourselves," the sandy-haired man says, breaking the silence. His tone is now that's cool and no longer carrying any of the cold harshness it had before. Gratitude surges within you.

"Kato Haru," he says, putting the bowl down on the coffee table. "This," he continues, as he gestures to the suited gentleman who's currently blowing on a spoonful of soup, "is my partner, Kambe Daisuke."

"It's a pleasure," Daisuke says, after he swallows down the spoonful. "Your soup is good," he adds, before taking another spoonful. "Maybe you should work in a restaurant, although nursing does pay well."

The off-handed compliment catches you by surprise, and you stifle a small laugh in response as warmth floods your cheeks. "Th...thanks," you stutter out, as you nervously push back a couple of strands of loose hair. Daisuke gives you a nod.

"I'm (Last Name) (Name)," you say, bowing your head slightly. "But you can call me (Name) instead."

"I think that's a good idea, since you're both neighbors," Daisuke pipes up, giving Haru a side smile. "Maybe it would allow you to expand your social circle a bit more, Kato-san."

Haru looks at Daisuke coldly. "I'm not taking socializing advice from you, Money for Brains."

It's quite a while since dinner (or whatever you want to call that impromptu meal) has ended, and you clean up as Haru and Daisuke dust themselves off and wait patiently at your door. Deciding that you'd rather deal with the dishes in the morning than with the enlarged headache that has now taken occupation of much of your mind, you hurry to the door, bunny slippers shuffling across.

You let yourself have that one.

They step aside to let you unlock the door, and you open it slowly, doing your best to not let the stench of alcohol flood your apartment. Gods only know that the mere whiff of it will make you scream in pain. It's bad enough that your bathroom always smells like bleach and rubbing alcohol.

"Thanks again," Haru says, as the both of them step out. You bow your head slightly, shaking your hand before you dismissively. "Like I said, I'm more than glad to help," you reply, a soft smile on your face.

Haru returns it, his light eyes warming up. "Well then, I guess I'll see you around," he says, as Daisuke thanks you for the meal and begins to walk before his partner. Haru takes his leave, and turning around, follows him.

"See you around," you answer softly, as the sounds of their bickering from the staircase reach your ears. You shut the door, and lock it twice before your back hits the wooden surface, and your entire body slumps to the floor.

You hold your head in your hands, groaning in pain. Your fingers rub your temples gingerly, and you let out a low moan of hurt as your legs stretch out before you. Today has completely exhausted you, but you're glad you didn't have to deal with drunk people this time around. You also got to meet your other neighbor, who you've never seen around. Maybe certain things were blessings in disguise.

"Man, I need some alcohol."