Chapter 4: The Healer's Visit
Three days passed in a blur of silk, strange food, and fitful sleep. Megumi had chosen the left side of the bed. It felt less like a choice and more like a test she’d passed when Satoru merely nodded and took the right.
The morning of the doctor’s visit, the air in the penthouse felt different. Sharper. She could smell the antiseptic cleanliness beneath the usual incense before the man even arrived.
Satoru was already dressed, leaning against the bedroom doorway in a charcoal sweater and dark trousers, the perpetual blindfold in place. He looked like a sleek statue. “He’s here. Behave.”
The command was unnecessary. She was coiled tight on the edge of the made bed, wearing one of the soft cotton dresses someone—him, probably—had left for her. Her tail was a frantic metronome against the duvet.
The doctor was an older man with tired eyes and a calm, impersonal manner. He didn’t flinch at her ears or her tail. He barely looked at her face. To him, she was a fascinating specimen, a unique piece of Satoru Gojo’s property that needed maintenance. He set his leather bag on a side table with a soft thud.
“Alright, let’s have a look,” the doctor said, his voice a dry rustle.
Satoru didn’t leave. He moved to the high-backed chair in the corner, crossed his legs, and became a spectator. His presence was a physical weight in the room.
The examination was clinical and thorough. Cold stethoscope on her back, her chest. Firm, probing fingers palpating her swollen belly, measuring. She tried to disassociate, to stare at a whorl in the mahogany paneling across the room, but Satoru’s focused stillness kept pulling her back. He was watching the doctor’s hands with an intensity that made the air feel thin.
“Heartbeat’s strong,” the doctor murmured, switching to a small, portable ultrasound machine. The cold gel made her jump. A moment later, a rapid, rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh filled the room.
Her breath caught. That was inside her. That was hers.
A glance flicked to Satoru. His head was tilted, a faint, unreadable curve to his mouth. He was listening to the sound of the kitten’s heartbeat.
“Growth is approximately on track, considering the severe maternal malnutrition,” the doctor stated, wiping the gel away. He turned to Satoru, delivering the report to him, not her. “The bone structure appears normal for a hybrid felid gestation. She’s deficient in nearly everything—iron, protein, calcium. The scarring and old fractures are extensive.” He said it all like he was listing defects in a used vehicle.
Megumi pulled the dress down, shrinking into herself. Her hands instinctively curled over her belly.
“So, fix it,” Satoru said. His tone was light, almost conversational, but it held a finality that brooked no argument.
“Rest. A high-calorie, nutrient-dense diet. I’ll send a regimen. No stress.” The doctor’s eyes finally flicked to Megumi, impersonal and assessing. “Her body is under enough strain.”
Satoru stood, a smooth uncoiling of limbs. “You’re done.”
It was a dismissal. The doctor packed his things quickly, offered a short bow to Satoru, and was gone without another word to her.
The silence he left behind was thick. The ghostly whoosh-whoosh seemed to echo in it. Megumi stayed on the bed, trembling faintly, the cold gel still damp on her skin.
Satoru didn’t speak for a long minute. Then he walked to the kitchenette, his movements unhurried. She heard the clink of ceramic, the sound of something being chopped. He returned with a wide, shallow bowl.
It was a mosaic of color: slices of sun-ripe mango, perfect ruby strawberries, glossy kiwi, a drizzle of something gold that smelled like honey. He sat on the edge of the bed, right where the doctor had been.
“Open,” he said, spearing a piece of mango with a small fork.
She stared at him, then at the fruit. Her pride warred with a raw, gnawing hunger that went beyond food. It was an ache for the care implied in the gesture, a care she violently distrusted.
“I can… I can do it,” she whispered, her voice raspy.
“I didn’t ask.” He held the fork steady. “Open.”
The defiance that had kept her alive in the slums flared, then sputtered out under the sheer, immovable force of his will. Slowly, she parted her lips.
He fed her the mango. It was explosively sweet and tender on her tongue. A small, pathetic sound escaped her—a whimper of pure, confused pleasure. He watched her swallow, then offered a strawberry. Then another piece of mango.
She ate mechanically at first. But with each bite, something in her rigid posture began to unbend. The sweetness was a shock to her system, a sensory anchor in the whirlpool of the last hour. Her tail, which had been lashing, slowed to a weak, occasional twitch.
He didn’t rush. He simply fed her, his blindfolded gaze fixed on her mouth, on the minute movements of her throat. When a drop of juice slid down her chin, he caught it with his thumb, wiping it away with a slow, deliberate stroke.
The bowl was half empty when her control cracked. A tear welled up and spilled over, tracking a hot path through the bruise on her cheekbone. She hated it. She looked away, shoulders hunching.
His hand came up again, but not to wipe the tear. He cupped her jaw, his thumb resting just below her eye, feeling the wetness. His touch wasn’t gentle, but it was definitive. He turned her face back toward him.
“None of that,” he murmured. His thumb brushed the tear away. “You’re eating. You’re safe. The kitten is strong. That’s all that matters now.”
The words were a command, a rewriting of her reality. She wanted to argue, to say that nothing about this was safe, that he was just a different kind of danger. But her body was traitorously leaning into the warmth of his hand, her cheek pressing against his palm. The simple, solid contact was a drug after the doctor’s cold probing.
He fed her the last strawberry. She took it, her lips brushing the tines of the fork.
For a moment, they just stayed like that. Him holding her face, her leaning into it, the empty bowl beside them. The city’ midday light streamed in, gliding the dust motes in the air.
He broke the silence, his voice regaining its familiar, teasing lilt. “You know, for a feral thing, you have decent table manners.”
It was so absurd, so deliberately light, that a choked sound—almost a laugh, almost a sob—bubbled in her chest. She didn’t know what to do with it.
He released her, standing up with the bowl. “Sleep now. The excitement is over.”
She watched him walk to the door, the bowl in his hand. He paused on the threshold.
“Oh, and Megumi?” he said, not looking back.
She waited.
“The left side was a good choice.”
He disappeared into the hall. She sat there, the flavors of fruit and honey lingering on her tongue, the echo of the kitten’s heartbeat a new rhythm inside her skull. The fear was still there, a cold kernel in her gut. But wrapped around it now was something warmer, something terrifyingly close to gratitude.
She slid down the bed, curling onto her chosen side, her body cupped protectively around the life within. She didn’t feel safe. But for the first time, she felt contained. And in her world, that was a distinction that held a world of meaning.