For Kei, there were many things he lacked, but time was not one of them.
Having already decided how to respond to the surveillance and how to quietly counter it, his mood improved noticeably.
When they arrived at the clinic, Kei took his usual seat and handed the medical record book to Hyūga Haru.
"Haru, from now on, I'll trouble you to record the patients' conditions."
On the surface, Haru had been assigned to look after him. Since that was the case, there was no reason not to make full use of her. Kei had never been one for false politeness.
"No problem."
Haru answered simply. She accepted the notebook and stepped behind him, assuming the role of assistant without hesitation. There was no visible resentment in her movements, only quiet compliance, as though she were merely fulfilling an assigned duty.
Kei had expected nothing less.
Haru was no different from Hyūga Natsu. Girls like them had been raised from childhood by the main family, trained to obey without question. Orders were executed, not discussed.
They exchanged few words before the clinic door opened.
A one-armed man stepped inside, marking the start of the day's work.
Before Kei could even ask what troubled him, the man blurted out in agitation, "Doctor, I feel like I'm going insane!"
"There's no need to rush. Take your time," Kei replied gently, offering his usual warm smile. He poured a cup of tea and pushed it toward the man. With patients in distress, calming the emotions always came first.
After a sip, the man seemed steadier, though his body still trembled slightly.
"My name is Takagi Yōsuke," he began. "Some time ago, I was injured during a mission. My right hand was blown apart. The damage was so severe… they had no choice but to amputate."
Kei nodded slightly, encouraging him to continue.
"But two days ago," Yōsuke said, voice shaking, "I suddenly realized… my right hand was back. I can see it."
He swallowed hard.
"At first, I thought it was a miracle. But it turned into a nightmare. This hand, only I can see it, hurts from morning until night. It never stops."
"I went to the hospital. They gave me painkillers. They don't work and the pain won't let me sleep. I feel like I'm about to break…"
By the time Yōsuke finished, Kei already understood the diagnosis.
From a psychological standpoint, this was phantom limb pain.
Known clinically as "phantom pain"
A condition in which a patient continues to feel the presence of an amputated limb, often accompanied by severe pain, burning, tearing, stabbing and electric shocks. The pain tends to persist and intensify in episodes, and medication frequently proves ineffective.
"What should I do?" Yōsuke pleaded. "If this pain continues, I really will lose my mind!"
Kei remained calm.
"Mr. Takagi, the more agitated you become, the harder it will be to resolve this. I do have a method, but first, you must calm yourself."
Those words were like a rope thrown to a drowning man.
Yōsuke forced himself to breathe evenly.
Kei then asked Haru to fetch a cardboard box. He placed a mirror inside it and cut two holes into the front panel.
"Now," Kei said evenly, "place both of your arms into the box."
Yōsuke hesitated, clearly skeptical, but in the end he complied.
"Do you see your 'two' arms reflected in the mirror?"
Throughout the process, Kei deliberately emphasized the idea of two arms. The goal was to guide Yōsuke into accepting the phantom limb as real before attempting to retrain his perception of it.
"Yes," Yōsuke murmured, staring at the mirror. "I can see them."
"Good. Now slowly open and close your hands. Make a fist, then release. Repeat it gently."
"Does this really work?" Yōsuke asked uncertainly. "I know my right hand isn't actually there."
The method sounded absurd even to him.
But the steady confidence in Kei's expression made him try.
As he began the motion, something shifted.
In the mirror, the reflected "right hand" moved naturally, alive.
After several repetitions, the relentless pain began to ease.
It didn't disappear completely, but compared to before, the difference was undeniable.
Yōsuke stared at Kei in shock.
"Doctor… how did you do this? My hand doesn't hurt nearly as much!"
"As long as it's helping, that's what matters," Kei said gently. "Continue this exercise several times a day. The condition will gradually improve."
"Thank you, truly, thank you!" Yōsuke's voice trembled with relief. "Without you, I don't know how I would have endured."
"It's simply my responsibility. Now go home and get some rest."
Kei maintained his warm smile as he saw the man out.
Behind him, Haru remained silent for a long moment before finally asking, unable to suppress her curiosity.
"What was that? How can a cardboard box and a mirror treat something so strange?"
"It's a psychological technique called mirror therapy," Kei replied casually. "Even if I explained the mechanism in detail, you wouldn't understand."
"Then don't explain it," Haru said coolly.
She said nothing more, but she firmly committed the matter to memory, intending to report it later.
Kei turned his dull gray eyes toward her.
"You've recorded the patient's symptoms clearly, I assume?"
"Yes."
"Good." He nodded faintly. "With such a diligent assistant, my work becomes much easier. I imagine the Grand Elder will be pleased."
Haru's brows tightened slightly.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing in particular." Kei smiled lightly. "I was simply impressed. Someone from the Grand Elder's household truly is different, attentive, professional and thorough."
The air in the clinic subtly shifted.
Kei, however, appeared oblivious, tilting his head slightly as if studying her.
Haru held the notebook in one hand and the pen in the other, her gaze fixed on him.
After a few seconds, her voice cooled.
"You're mistaken. I'm not from the Grand Elder's household."
"Oh?" Kei gave a soft chuckle. "Seeing how earnest you are, I assumed you were main family. My apologies… it seems I misunderstood."
He didn't need to finish the sentence.
The implication was clear enough.
And after his apology, the hand holding the pen tightened just slightly.
Good.
A reaction was all he needed.
The consequence of that "misunderstanding" was subtle but noticeable.
Over the next several days, Haru's expression remained cold. She spoke little, standing behind Kei like a carved statue during business hours. Unless he directly requested assistance, she remained silent.
It wasn't until a week later that the atmosphere between them eased somewhat.
That evening, after closing the clinic, Kei called out to her.
"Haru."
He took out a sealed letter and held it toward her.
"Please deliver this to the Grand Elder."
Though reluctant, Haru accepted it.
"What does it say?"
"Nothing significant. A few words of gratitude… and a small request."
She neither agreed nor objected. She simply tucked the letter away and left.
After sensing her departure, Kei allowed a faint smile to form.
There was anticipation in it.
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