Doctor of Medicine (M.D.) – University of Tokyo, Faculty of Medicine.
Doctor of Philosophy (Ph.D.) in Surgical Sciences – University of Tokyo Graduate School of Medicine.
Board Certification in General Surgery – Japanese Board of Surgery.
Fellowship in Cardiothoracic Surgery – Shizukesa Hospital, Tokyo Japan.
Four outstanding achievements that followed his name wherever he went. A little over a decade was spent working relentlessly for these titles, yet none of them affected his lifelong lack of arrogance. When it came to acknowledging his own accomplishments, Hairo Kisaragi was the last person to be inspired by.
But none of these talents mattered anymore.
Over three thousand surgeries. Hairo Kisaragi was very much a contender for the doctor with the lowest mortality rate. But today, his patient was dead.
"...For real?"
"Yeah. His patient just— died!" a group of nurses was gossiping. "It was a simple appendectomy, but…"
The hushed voices of the nurses in the hallway didn't bother lowering their volume as they spoke in disbelief.
"But it was him! The Dr. Kisaragi!" one of them whispered with gaping eyes. "Over three thousand successful surgeries, and not a single death until now?"
"Even the chief said it was an accident… Something about how he reacted to the anesthesia?"
"No one's blaming him, but… I mean, can you imagine? Being him?"
Inside the surgeon's lounge, Hairo Kisaragi sat completely motionless. His steady hands were motionless with fingers that had lost their purpose.
He should be feeling something. Grief. Regret. Guilt. Anything. But his god-given brain was blank for the first time in his life, swallowed whole by the chilling, clinical realization—
I lost a patient.
The words felt unreal as they bounced in his head. His entire career, his entire existence, had revolved around saving absolutely anyone and everyone, no exceptions. He had eluded fate more times than he could count and could effortlessly snatch even the most hopeless people from the brink of death. Such actions brought him the childlike name—The Miracle Surgeon—but that had felt more like a tall tale than ever.
Miracles don't exist. Not today.
"It was…" he began under his breath as though he were trying to convince himself. "Anaphylactic shock. Undetectable allergy to the anesthesia. No prior history. No way of knowing beforehand."
Logically, objectively, realistically— Hairo knew the death wasn't his fault. But no amount of convincing could get him past the fact that he allowed a life to slip out of his reach. Running his fingers through his hair and exhaling a burdened sigh, he fiddled with a clipboard in his fingers, which contained the information of his patient.
Yusuke Sato. An eighteen-year-old boy, so he was only two years younger than Hairo. Presenting with acute abdominal pain, localized to the lower right quadrant. It was a standard diagnosis, and everything should have been resolved within an hour.
"But it didn't."
His distraught voice was barely a whisper. He shut his eyes for a moment before standing, and grabbing his bag. The chief of surgery had ordered him to take a few days off to rest and clear his mind. As if that were possible.
"Hey, Hairo," the receptionist greeted him softly. "You getting ready to leave?"
He leaned against the counter, scratching on a piece of paper, finishing up the last of his paperwork, and speaking with an unexpectedly calm tone. "Yeah. I'm supposed to take the week off."
"Well… take care of yourself. Be careful on the way home. I hear there's a huge crowd of police flooding the area. Something about a missing person."
"...I see."
* * *
About an hour had passed from Yusuke Sato's death, and Hairo strolled through the streets of Tokyo after dark. He seemed to take in the details of the world more deliberately, recalling the reactions of Sato's family.
Expectedly distraught. Heartbroken. But the salt in the wound was Sato's mother's words. "Thank you for doing your best".
"Thank you for doing your best…? I just killed your son, and you're already giving me forgiveness?"
He exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists inside his pockets. It didn't feel right. He had spent his life rationalizing everything, but this was something he couldn't understand at all.
For the first time, the ever-so-composed Hairo Kisaragi was on the verge of spiraling.
"...!"
His boiling thoughts were cut short by the piercing sounds of sirens. A group of police cars sped past him towards an intersection with much more cars and officers. The area was riddled with tape and authority figures redirecting traffic and citizens away.
The sounds were enough to pull Hairo out of his imagination and back into reality.
"Must be that 'missing person' issue," he mumbled, pulling his hood over his head. "Better go a different way."
The only detour that he could take was the alleyway just up ahead.
* * *
"Where is he?!?"
"Find him quickly… he's a high priority agent!"
"Damn it… why did it have to make a complete nutcase this time?! Once in who knows how many eons, too…"
There were panicked voices of several people. They were all focused on the presence of this "agent". Hairo quickly walked away from these voices.
"Shit…" He sucked in a breath through his teeth. The 4 AM air was freezing, and the dense shadows only worsened the unease in his gut.
He quickened his walking pace. "I need to get home fast. This place is giving me the creeps."
Just as he was about to exit the alleyway and enter the path to his apartment, a heart-sinking force enveloped him.
A weak voice called out. It was devoid of any vitality.
"H-Hai… Hairo… Kisaragi…"
"...Huh…?"
"Hai…ro… Kisara…gi… Kisa…Hai…ro..gi."
The unfamiliar voice slurred his name in fragments, struggling to form words.
Emotions of two extremes flooded his brain.
One, his fight or flight.
Two, the vow he made as a doctor to help anyone and everyone.
In the end, the vow would win.