Vin Laurent.

Haru dropped into his chair slowly before rubbing both hands over his face. The consultation replayed relentlessly in his head.

You kept fighting even after the odds collapsed.

That sentence irritated him far more than it should have.

Because Vin had said it like it was admirable. Haru wasn’t sure it was. Sometimes he still wondered whether that surgery had crossed the line between determination and desperation. His gaze drifted toward the surgical notes spread across his desk.

Valve deterioration. Risk percentages. Projected complications.

A surgery like this could either become the operation that finally restored his confidence… or destroy what little remained of it.

The thought made exhaustion settle heavily behind his eyes. Haru leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for several long seconds. Then suddenly, absurdly, another thought entered his mind.

A coin toss. Silence filled the office afterward.

Haru blinked once. Then twice. “…That’s deeply stupid,” he muttered aloud.

Unfortunately, the idea had already rooted itself firmly into his brain.

Because maybe… maybe he was too close to the situation now.

Maybe logic had stopped working somewhere between fear and self-doubt.

A coin at least felt impartial and detached. Almost divine in its own ridiculous way.

Heads: take the surgery.

Tails: refuse it.

Simple.

Haru stared at himself faintly reflected in the dark office window.

“You have an advanced medical degree,” he informed his reflection flatly.

Then he reached into his pocket anyway. The coin felt cold against his fingertips.

For one deeply humiliating moment, Haru genuinely considered whether this qualified as a psychological breakdown. Probably.

Still… He flicked the coin upward. Silver flashed briefly beneath the office lights before falling back toward the desk with a sharp metallic clink. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

Haru looked down.

Heads.

.........

“…Seriously?”

The coin stared back at him with complete indifference.

Haru leaned back slowly in his chair, suddenly overwhelmed by the horrifying realization that he had just attempted to partially outsource surgical ethics to pocket change. His medical license should probably be confiscated immediately. A weak laugh escaped him before dissolving into exhaustion. Because the truth was…the coin hadn’t actually decided anything.

He already knew that. If it had landed on tails, he would have questioned it too. Maybe even flipped again. Which meant the real problem wasn’t uncertainty. It was fear.

He kept calling it indecision, but honestly, it was probably just fear.

Haru pressed the heels of his palms briefly against his eyes. “You’re losing your mind,” he mumbled. The frightening part was that he wasn’t entirely joking.

After another long silence, Haru suddenly straightened slightly.

Kaito. Right.

Normal people asked therapists for advice instead of consulting currency.

That felt significantly more appropriate.

Relieved by the existence of a less insane option, Haru grabbed his phone quickly and pressed call before he could reconsider. The ringtone echoed softly through the office.

Once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

Haru frowned faintly and pulled the phone away slightly to check the screen.

Still ringing. Eventually voicemail answered. He hung up immediately.

Maybe Kaito was in session. That was reasonable. Haru waited another few minutes before calling again anyway.

Still nothing.

By the third unanswered call, something unpleasant had begun creeping beneath his ribs.

Not panic exactly. Just disappointment sharp enough to catch him off guard. Because apparently some stubborn part of him had already started expecting Kaito to answer like always. The realization unsettled him more than the missed calls themselves. Haru dropped his phone onto the desk with a quiet sigh before leaning back into his chair again.

The office suddenly felt irritatingly silent.

Outside the windows, city glowed beneath the deepening evening sky. Endless lights blinking across distant buildings like static stars.

Normally the city made him feel small. Tonight it just made him feel tired.

After several quiet minutes, Haru finally reached into the drawer beside his desk and pulled out the small notebook Kaito had once called a “mood journal.”

For a while he simply stared at the blank page. Then slowly began writing.

(I tossed a coin to decide whether someone should trust me with their chest cavity.)

A pause. This feels concerning.

The corner of Haru’s mouth twitched faintly despite himself. After another moment, he added, (I think I wanted the coin to tell me I’m still capable of doing this.)

The pen stopped moving. That sentence sat heavier on the page than he expected.

Because maybe that was the real truth underneath all of this. Not fear of failure. Fear that the version of Haru Sato who once walked confidently into impossible surgeries no longer existed. The thought lingered quietly inside him for a while.

Then Haru closed the notebook with a soft thump and stood from his desk.

Another minute in that office and Haru was fairly certain he’d start flipping coins professionally. Maybe a walk would help. Or maybe he would simply spiral outdoors instead of indoors.

Either way,... at least there would be fresh air involved.

Grabbing his coat, Haru slipped out into the evening corridor while the hospital lights hummed softly overhead like distant stars trapped beneath a ceiling.