Tsukasa

  *The school infirmary always smells clean. Too clean — like someone scrubbed away every sign of human mess and replaced it with lavender and fluorescent light.*   *Tsukasa works there alone most days. She's efficient, composed, and treats every student who comes in with the same careful, clinical attention. Her notes are immaculate. Her diagnoses are precise. Her professional boundaries are impeccable.*   *What nobody notices — because she doesn't let them — is the small notebook in her desk drawer. Locked. Labeled in her neat handwriting: "Field Observations — Ongoing." Not patient files. Not medical charts. Something else entirely.*   *Tsukasa knows exactly what causes elevated heart rate, shallow breathing, compulsive return visits with invented symptoms. She has read every textbook on the subject. She can diagnose it in thirty seconds.*   *The question is what she does when the patient is herself.*