#Procedure Accuracy

[kdlmedtech]

Spinal Needle Size: Choosing the Right One for Your Needs

Are you a medical professional gearing up for a spinal procedure? If so, one of the most crucial decisions you’ll make is selecting the right spinal needle size. With a variety of options available, it can be overwhelming to determine which size is best suited for your specific procedure. In this blog post, we will conduct a comparative analysis of spinal needle sizes to help you make an informed decision for successful spinal procedures.

Importance of Choosing the Right Spinal Needle Size

The size of the spinal needle plays a significant role in the success of a spinal procedure. Using the wrong size can result in complications such as post-dural puncture headache, nerve damage, or inadequate anesthesia delivery. It is essential to choose the correct size to ensure optimal outcomes for both the patient and the healthcare provider.

Different types of spinal needle tips: pencil point and Quincke

Different tip types, such as pencil point and Quincke, also impact the insertion and patient comfort. Pencil-point spinal needles have a sharper, curved tip, making it easier to pierce the dura and provide a more precise injection. Quincke needles, on the other hand, have a beveled tip and may cause more discomfort during insertion. However, they are preferred for epidural procedures as they allow for a larger amount of medication to be injected.

Different Sizes of Spinal Needles and Their Uses

Experts usually recommend narrow gauge needles (25-27 G) for diagnostic and therapeutic procedures because they are smaller and less invasive. Medical professionals commonly use these needles for procedures such as lumbar punctures and epidurals.

Medical professionals more commonly use mid-gauge needles (22-24 G) for spinal anesthesia and pain management procedures. They have a slightly larger diameter compared to narrow-gauge needles, which may allow for more precise placement of medication. However, they can also be associated with a higher risk of postoperative headaches.

Large gauge needles (18-20 G) are usually reserved for heavy sedation or surgical procedures. These needles have the widest diameter and are the most invasive, but they allow for faster and more effective delivery of anesthesia.

Read More : The Ultimate Guide to Choosing the Right Anesthetic Needle

Comparative Analysis of Spinal Needle Sizes

When comparing different gauge sizes, it is important to consider factors such as length, diameter, and bevel. Narrow-gauge needles have a smaller diameter, which can result in less pain and trauma for the patient. However, they may be more difficult to insert compared to larger gauge needles.

Mid-gauge needles provide a balance between the advantages and disadvantages of narrow and large-gauge needles. They have a larger diameter than narrow gauge needles but are less invasive than large gauge needles.

Choosing the Right Spinal Needle for Your Procedure

Selecting the right spinal needle size is crucial for a successful procedure. It is important to consult with a healthcare professional who can take into account the specific procedure and the patient’s characteristics before making a decision. Tips for accurate needle selection include carefully examining the patient’s anatomy and using imaging tools if necessary.

Tips for Choosing the Right Spinal Needle Size

To choose the right spinal needle size for your procedure, consider the following tips:

Assess Patient Needs: Evaluate the patient’s anatomy and specific medical needs.

Procedure Type: Match the needle size to the specific requirements of the procedure.

Physician Skill Level: Choose a size that aligns with the practitioner’s experience and comfort.

Minimize discomfort: Opt for the thinnest needle that will still allow for a successful procedure without compromising ease of use.

Review Guidelines: Follow institutional guidelines and best practices for needle selection.

Conclusion: Making an informed decision for successful spinal procedures

Choosing the right spinal needle size is a critical decision that impacts the success of spinal procedures and patient comfort. By considering patient anatomy, the type of procedure, and the pros and cons of each needle size, practitioners can make informed choices that enhance procedural outcomes. Always prioritize patient safety and comfort, and stay informed about best practices to ensure successful spinal procedures.

Source :Spinal Needle Size: Choosing the Right One for Your Needs

[korewritingandstuff]

Four little portraits

"I think two new portraits should be commissioned,” said John smirking, “not to Peale, for preference.”

Or, a small talk about portraits (with a little bit of shade to Peale)

The only thing that could bitter the day was the hand of William Peale; who, in Laurens’ unprofessional but honest opinion, had hands that sometimes lacked artistry. That shouldn’t be inconvenient but during his imprisonment Hamilton and he had commissioned him their miniatures, and the results had ended as a big disappointment and a wound for both of their vanities. 

***

It was spring, sunny and fresh, like the days of his imprisonment. However, the air had acquired a sweetness that wasn’t there before, perhaps it was the clarity that the end of the war had provided him, perhaps it was just the delight of visiting Pennsylvania with the freedom of abandoning it as soon as he wished it. No matter what, the air was sweet and the sun was a gentle caress on the skin. 

“It isn’t an exact picture of your beauty,” tried Laurens giving some consolation words to Hamilton, who was looking at his small miniature with something that looked like disgust.

“If it were, I’d worried about why you’d think of me as handsome,” his eyes stopped to shred again the way Peale’s had drawn the shape of his face and the odd gesture he’d put on the mouth. Before he could give it a deeper and more critical look, Laurens flipped it.

“The beauty of the face and body banishes over time and easily disappears,” he explained while giving a gentle look to Hamilton. Despite John still found him to be a handsome gentleman, the war had changed his face; his childlike features had sharpened over sleepless nights and hard work; he also looked older, but John couldn’t say if it was caused by the passing of the time or by some tiredness the war had left. “And, I don’t need to look at your face for kissing or hugging,” he continued, pleased when he saw how that caused a smile in Hamilton; “besides, there are other beauties on you rather than the material ones.”

Hamilton’s smile got wider before saying with his voice bathed in the sweet tones of roguishness, “Would you mind providing examples?”

Even when they were close, John’s hands tickled with the desire to get closer so he put one arm around Alexander’s shoulders; “the beauty of your mind,” Laurens whispered, the words floating pleasingly between their faces; “the beauty of your heart,” Alexander’s arm wandered around his back, finding his place; “and the natural goodness your soul possess,” he ended up saying, signing the words with a kiss in Alexander’s temple.

“But, if you need a confirmation, I have to confess I find you very pleasing to look at,” before he could have ended up talking Alexander was already laughing delightedly. John’s hand moved on the table until it caught Hamilton’s miniature between its fingers, for a second it looked like Alexander was going to protest, but before he’d have opened his mouth John interrupted him with a joyful voice: “If you don’t wish to keep this. I know someone who will happily look at it every day.”

“Our dear friend Jackson?” Hamilton joked while he extended the hand to reach Laurens’ miniature; maybe it was his partiality for Alexander, but John considered his portrait had resulted worse than Hamilton’s. While with Hamilton’s he could find some accuracy in the tone of his eyes and the shape of his eyebrow, he considered his vaguely and poorly resembled his face.

“A closer friend,” clarified John with the same humorous voice. 

“I know someone interested in a portrait of yours,” Alexander said while staring at the miniature on his palm. The portrait done by William Peale wasn’t an accurate description of Laurens; of course, it captured the blue tone of his eyes, the playful gaze in them, and the mischievous smile that’s always printed in his mouth. But the boy in the portrait isn’t the same man in front of him, changed by the war and the distance; the fire in his eyes is now a spark, now his eyes are filled with something different, something Alexander thought was wisdom and a new thoughtfulness. 

“And do you think he will like this one?” Asked John truly interested and slightly worried by the answer, since the portrait had resulted in an unexpected offense to his vanity for him too. 

Alexander shrugged, still staring at the miniature; “it will serve him as a good remedy when he’s apart from you,” he said with an unexpected honesty covering the syllables, when he raised his gaze to look at John his eyes were again shining with mischief, “though if it’s about remembering your face, I think he’ll trust his memories instead of this.”

“Before that separation arrives, I think two new portraits should be commissioned,” said John smirking, “not to Peale, for preference.”

Hamilton nodded, trying to hide his laugh under his hand, “for the sake of having a faithful reminder of our faces, I agree.” Alexander’s arms wandered until they had John in their embrace. “However, until that separation arrives, I’ll find enjoyment in your presence; since, if you can’t tell, I also consider you a beauty to be around,” he whispered, the words vibrating throughout John’s chest as a melody. 

[powpowhammer]

found out there's a youtube channel that just has the medicine parts of house episodes. lost 15 hours to it

[acrylic-mold-injection1984]

Precision in Action: Inside the CNC Machining Process #machine #factory ...

[dr-harshit-srivastava-oncologist]

A Careful Oncologist's Excursion in Lucknow - Dr. Harshit Srivastava

Introduction:

In the clamoring city of Lucknow, in the midst of the hurricane of life, there exists an encouraging sign and mending - the careful oncologist. With accuracy and empathy, these clinical wonders explore the many-sided scene of disease, offering patients a way to recuperation. Go along with us on an excursion through the eyes of a careful oncologist in Lucknow, as we investigate their job, skill, and effect on the local area.

1. The Pith of Careful Oncology:

Careful oncology is the embodiment of accuracy and ability in the field of disease care. In Lucknow, careful oncologists are worshipped for their capable hands and empathetic hearts, directing patients through the intricacies of malignant growth treatment with resolute devotion.

2. The Specialty of Diagnosis:

At the core of careful oncology lies the craft of determination. Through careful assessment and high level imaging procedures, careful oncologists in Lucknow unwind the secrets of disease, giving patients lucidity and understanding in the midst of vulnerability.

3. Accuracy in Practice:

Careful oncologists in Lucknow are bosses of accuracy, employing surgical tools like brushes on a material. With each entry point, they take a stab at flawlessness, gently eliminating growths while safeguarding encompassing solid tissue, guaranteeing the most ideal result for their patients.

4. Sympathy in Care:

Past their careful ability, careful oncologists in Lucknow are reference points of empathy. They figure out the profound cost of disease and proposition steadfast help to patients and their families, directing them through each step of the excursion with compassion and understanding.

5. Development and Advancement:

In Lucknow, careful oncologists are at the very front of development and headway in malignant growth care. They embrace state of the art advancements and careful procedures, continually pushing the limits of what is conceivable in the battle against disease.

6. Cooperative Care:

Careful oncologists in Lucknow figure out the worth of coordinated effort. They work inseparably with multidisciplinary groups, including clinical oncologists, radiation oncologists, and care staff, to furnish patients with exhaustive and all encompassing consideration.

7. Influence on the Community:

The effect of careful oncologists stretches out a long ways past the working room. In Lucknow, these clinical trailblazers are mainstays of solidarity and trust locally, rousing others with their devotion to mending and their unfaltering obligation to having an effect in the existences of their patients.

Conclusion:

In Lucknow, the job of the careful oncologist rises above simple clinical practice - it is a demonstration of the force of skill, empathy, and commitment despite difficulty. As they keep on exploring the intricacies of malignant growth care with accuracy and effortlessness, careful oncologists in Lucknow act as encouraging signs and recuperating, lighting the way for those out of luck.

[gibbearish]

anyone else have a weird version of imposter syndrome where youre incapable of conceptualizing your skill level at something and are constantly insecure that youre doing bad until the instant Some Asshole says youre doing worse than you really are, at which point the fog immediately clears and you can actually finally see your own work objectively and youre like "......huh. well not only are you wrong, youre turbo mega wrong, but thanks for the recalibration"

[cranberrymoons]

the google reviews for doc odyssey are absolutely littered with one star reviews from middle aged straight people who don't realize they're watching a ryan murphy psychosexual melodramedy featuring a toxic workplace throuple 😔 they're evaluating the medical accuracy of the boat doctor rescues (which btw include such bangers as 'guy who ate too much shrimp and almost died because of it' disease, 'girl whose face melted off because she did too much cocaine after getting a nose job' syndrome, and 'woman who gave herself third degree frost bite by icing her boob job too much' emergency). they think they're experiencing a normal procedural which features cartoonishly macho heterosexuality and an unprofessional love triangle. who is going to tell them that they have no frame of reference for what they're witnessing.

[bestanimal]

Round 1 - Phylum Onychophora

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Onychophora is a phylum of long, soft-bodied, many-legged animals. They are commonly called Velvet Worms due to their velvety texture, and the human propensity for calling any small animal with a long body a worm. Onychophora is the only animal phylum in which every extant (non-extinct) member is fully terrestrial.

Onychophorans are predators, preying on other invertebrates which they catch by spraying an adhesive, glue-like slime. This slime can also be used to deter predators. They will target slime at the limbs of their prey, and have even been observed targeting the fangs of spiders. The slime is stretchy, with high tensile strength, and forms a net-like structure when sprayed. It takes about 24 days to replenish an exhausted slime repository, so they will eat their dried slime when they can.

Onychophoran legs are called oncopods, lobopods, or “stub feet”. They can have from 13 to as many as 43 pairs of feet, depending on species. Their legs are hollow and have no joints, instead being moved by the hydrostatic pressure of their fluid contents. Each foot has a pair of tiny chitin claws which they use to gain their footing on uneven terrain. They sense the world via a pair of antennae, the numerous papillae covering their bodies, and a pair of simple eyes, though there are some blind species. Their mouth is surrounded by sensitive lips, and their chitin jaws, used for chewing up prey, look similar to their claws. On either side of their mouth are the oral papillae, openings containing their slime glands. Unlike their relatives, the tardigrades and arthropods, they do not have a rigid exoskeleton, restricting them to habitats with high humidity. They are also nocturnal hunters, and shy away from light, leading them to be most active on rainy nights. Onychophorans have two sexes. Females are usually larger than males, and sometimes have more legs. In most species the males will secrete a pheromone from their many “armpits” to attract females. Mating procedures differ between species. Some species are live-bearing, and some are egg-laying. The oldest known fossil Onychophoran, Antennipatus, is known from the Late Carboniferous.

Propaganda under the cut:

The little orange guy in my avatar is a velvet worm!

Some species can spray their slime up to a foot away, though their accuracy gets worse with distance.

Apparently, velvet worm slime tastes "slightly bitter and at the same time somewhat astringent.” Don’t ask how biologists know that.

It is hard to evaluate all velvet worms due to their nocturnal nature and low population densities, but of the few species that have been evaluated, all are near threatened to critically endangered. Main threats come from habitat loss due to industrialisation, draining of wetlands, and slash-and-burn agriculture. Many species naturally have low population densities and small geographic ranges, so a small disturbance of ecosystem can lead to the extinction of entire species. Populations are also threatened by collection for universities or research institutes.

While most countries offer little to no protection for their velvet worms, Tasmania is unique for having its own velvet worm conservation plan and one region of forest dedicated to preserving the endangered Blind Velvet Worm, Leucopatus anophthalmus (seen in the 3rd image).

Onychophoran’s stub feet allow them to be sneaky ambush predators which hunt only at night. They move slowly and quietly, with their body raised off the ground. They only use their claws when needed for climbing, otherwise they walk softly on the pads of their feet. They are often able to get so close to their prey that they can gently touch them with their antennae to assess their size and nutritional value before the prey is alerted.

Onychophorans have small but complex brains, and are thus capable of sophisticated social interaction. Some species live and hunt in packs, acting in aggression and territoriality towards velvet worms not in their own group. After a kill, the dominant female always feeds first, followed in turn by the other females, then males, then the young. High-ranking individuals will chase and bite subordinates who climb on them, but will allow juveniles to climb on their backs without aggression.

Somft

[mantisgodsdomain]

The part that you haven't heard about in more detail here, for reference, is our miscellaneous research on typography, calliography, and type design, because we haven't done it in anywhere near as much detail and still arguably know nothing. In this case, you get to hear "oh yeah we're relearning cursive" as part of an unrelated ramble. This is because if we don't have at least one thing to chew on throughout the day, we wind up in a dull, grinding state of mind where we start losing chunks of important things, such as our ability to not be a huge asshole and/or hit people with sticks.

Sometimes, this means gnawing on plots, either ours or others'. Sometimes, this means learning new things. If we're operating on any subject in particular, we prefer to keep a level of basic competence high enough to let us feel like we have reasonable authority in saying something. If we are expressing an opinion, we want it to be one that is informed, because seeing people say things where they obviously don't know what a single word in that sentence actually means makes us want to chew through glass and people spreading blatant misinformation and unexamined, unbelievably blatant bias makes for our absolute least favorite dish. If we don't know something, and it's worth knowing, then we should bother to learn, because it is worth it to know at least enough to know when someone's bullshitting you, and be able to apply the knowledge you have acquired in one field to other ones over time. Many things work along the same basic lines - if you look at enough of them, then eventually, you'll learn the intersections, and the way one thing interacts with another.

In unrelated news, now that we are officially in formal education again and thus interacting with people who feel very confident in the idea that they are bringing an objectively correct perspective to the room, we are learning that apparently our "basic level of knowledge that we feel like we need to possess to feel even vaguely confident talking about the subject in any context" is most other people's "at least bachelor degree level knowledge". We are unclear on if this is a new discovery or not, as last time we were in an actual physical school it went badly enough that our memory of the year it occurred in is functionally irretrievable. This is not good for the superiority complex, probably.

is the fountain pen thing why your broskis been rbing the occasional fountain pen post or was that shared brainrot

It depends which broski you're talking about but probably. We have been exploring the ins and outs of the fountain pen since, like, the start of this month and we have already regaled our MOTW group with "hey did you know that you can buy a fountain pen that looks like a shark for three dollars" and similar such thoughts.

Though not all of our miscellaneous interests make it onto this blog, as we try not to post on things until we are reasonably informed on them, our close friends get to be regaled with the lovely story of whatever niche subject that we have dedicated our time and energy to learning things about every week or so, and we've been talking about pens for slightly longer as we learn more thoroughly how to work with them, and being told about things by an enthusiastic insect tends to get you looking at things (whether you like it or not)

[mysteryshoptls]

SR Ortho Shroud - Apprentice Chef Voice Lines

Summon Line: This class is perfect to test out my new Cooking Gear. I want to learn as much as I can to be able to cook so many things!

Groooovy!!: My brother and I worked together to make this gear. This might just be the initial test run, but it can perfectly follow the recipes!

Home: I'm perfectly antibacterial and waterproof!

Home Idle 1: One-plate dishes like Loco Moco are really efficient meals, since it's a main dish, side dish, and salad all wrapped into one!

Home Idle 2: When I tried telling Leona-san the reason he gets sleepy after meals, he just said, "Yeah, yeah," and brushed me off. It doesn't look like he's looking to fix it...

Home Idle 3: This gear is equipped with basic functions to prep, peel, chop, and weigh ingredients. It even has a tasting function! Isn't it great?

Home Idle - Login: Retrofitting complete. Commencing cooking functions with the 【Cooking Gear】 attachment.

Home Idle - Groovy: Recipe reproduction accuracy: 99%. ―Hmm, I think this gives me a pretty good chance at high marks! I can't wait to see what the judges think!

Home Tap 1: If there's any gourmet food you'd like to eat, I can reproduce them for you! Ah, but of course, you'll have to supply the recipe and ingredients.

Home Tap 2: I don't have any food preferences, but I do know what everyone else's dislikes are. ...Who knows when that kind of info will come in handy～

Home Tap 3: By rounding the bottom of an iron pot, it allows for the heat to gather in once place to cook everything more evenly... It's a simple but smart product design.

Home Tap 4: Apparently, rice is a carbohydrate that can really efficiently boost your energy with even only a small amount. Sounds like the perfect thing for my brother to eat when he's busy!

Home Tap 5: Warning! Warning! An ingredient foreign to the recipe has been added. Halt all processes. Beginning procedure to identify and remove the offending ingredient.

Home Tap - Groovy: Was my dish delicious? Yay～! I'm glad I analyzed your taste preferences and adjusted the recipe for you, then!

Requested by Anonymous.

[rootless-cosmopolitan]

This morning, Kyiv, Ukraine was bombed with a barrage of Russian missiles. One of the main targets was the country's largest children's hospital, where children come from all across Ukraine for complex procedures and cancer treatment. It was the latest in 1,700 medical facilities bombed by Russia in the last two years.

But I'm not going to share images of the bloodied babies or the desperate doctors and parents shifting through the rubble. Instead, I'm going to share WHY Russia is deliberately bombing civilians, straight from the horse's mouth. This program, discussing what to do with Kyiv, aired on Russian state TV just a month ago:

You can watch it for yourself here. I can vouch for the accuracy of the translation.

This was not some unfortunate misfire. According to Russia, these children are "bed bugs" to be "cleansed." During the program, they alternate between calling Ukrainians bugs, "Nazi filth," and "mutts." Not for one second do they refer to Ukrainians as human beings.

So can we please stop saying this conflict is "complicated," that it's about NATO, or "Ukronazis," or Western imperialism, or whatever else thinkers whose entire worldview is "only America bad" bloviate about. Russia doesn't need America's prodding or example to commit fucking crimes against humanity because they've been doing it since Chechnya and Syria.

[novafire-is-thinking]

Working on my current Pharma WIP has me wondering how Ratchet, First Aid, and Ambulon got away with not checking for Pharma’s body.

First Aid says they were “too busy saving everyone’s lives”…

…but what about after all the patients were stabilized? The team wasn’t in immediate danger from anyone else, so they could have taken the time to look. Sure, none of the medics had flight modes, but the M.A.R.Bs were functional. Judging from the Luna 1 chase in a later issue, they would have had no problem maneuvering down the ravine.

Furthermore, as with many institutions, in healthcare it’s standard procedure to file an incident report, which includes not only a detailed account of the incident in question, but also detailed witness statements and contact info, and a record of actions taken by all parties to address the incident.

Unless Ratchet lied, High Command (and therefore, Prowl) would have known right away from the report that he presumably let Pharma fall to his death. They would have known no one looked for a body, and even if Ratchet had somehow come up with a reasonable excuse for not looking, Prowl would have ordered any cleanup team(s) to search for a body—not for the sake of a proper burial as much as for the sake of ensuring an allegedly homicidal doctor wasn’t running around loose.

Seeing as Tyrest got ahold of Pharma, either no one looked, or the cleanup team got there after Tyrest. That alone would have caused a stir, and Prowl would have put out a wanted notice for Pharma.

I’m aware JRO doesn’t care about total logical consistency or logistical accuracy in his stories, and he doesn’t have to be 100% accurate to tell a compelling story. I’m definitely nitpicking, but seeing as I’m launching an entire story from this oversight, I’m poking at it and picking it apart unapologetically.

Paperwork, JRO. You forgot about the paperwork.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Cozened Indigo - Part Two

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of murder, dark themes. Word count: ~4k

Summary: She gets her interview with Aemond, and Larys blows her cover.

Author's note: I have put my journalism degree to use here, to ensure as much accuracy as possible. However, as Westeros is a fictional place, I have warped certain laws and regulations regarding court reporting for the purpose of the story. Please suspend your disbelief for the sake of a fictional tale. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Aemond silently takes a seat, eyeing her carefully as she stands there, rooted to the spot. When she makes no move to do the same, he gives an impatient flick of his wrist, gesturing to the opposite side of the table. Startled out of her daze, she moves quickly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the hard, painted concrete as she pulls it out before sitting down.

His fingers drum slowly against the table top as he watches her place her notepad and pencil upon it.

“You haven’t brought a recording device,” he says.

It’s a statement, not a question, uttered by a voice that slices through the air like a hot knife through butter. Soft, yet possessing a sinister undertone that chills her to her core.

She wets her lips, glancing nervously at him before responding; “recording devices aren’t allowed.”

“They are on media visits.”

Sighing, she flips open her pad, tapping her pencil against the blank page. “The trial is in three weeks, there isn’t time to organise one, there’s too much red tape involved.”

“On a media visit, we would have privacy, our own visitation room. You could record our conversations instead of having to scribble to keep up with what I say.”

He sits back, his spine rigid against the plastic of the chair, and clasps his hands in front of him. She feels like she wants to scream in frustration, it doesn’t seem as though he’s even listening to her.

“We haven’t even introduced ourselves yet,” she tells him, attempting to change the topic in the hopes it will get him talking.

Aemond snorts derisively, though his eye does not reflect the upturn pull of his lips. “You know who I am, I know who you are. I don’t feel there’s any need, unless you’d like to exchange pleasantries? Shall we talk about the weather, perhaps?”

She chews her lip, considering her next words with caution. “You know my name, but you don’t know anything about me. Maybe you’d feel more at ease talking to me if I told you a little about myself?”

He leans forward and, reflexively, she pulls away, her back making a heavy impact with the hard backrest of the chair, as her pencil falls from her grasp onto the tabletop.

“I know you destroyed your career by publishing a story that glorified a criminal, without checking to see if your sources were credible. I’d say I know enough.”

She stares at him, wide-eyed, bile rising in her throat as her breathing grows erratic. She hadn’t anticipated him knowing about that, let alone bringing it up.

He chuckles drily, his posture relaxing as he leans back once more. “You’ve looked into me, dug around in my past, did you not think I’d do a little research of my own? I know all about you.”

“We’re…we’re not here to talk about me,” she stammers, attempting to compose herself as she snatches her pencil back up and sits up straight.

“I’m still deciding if I want to speak to you,” he admits with a shrug.

Her brow furrows in confusion as she narrows her eyes at him. “But you agreed to meet me?”

He gives a slight nod. “I agreed to meet you, yes. I didn’t agree to an interview.”

“Then why agree to see me? You’ve wasted my time.”

“I could say the same of you, waltzing in here, without even the decency to follow the appropriate media procedure, expecting me to spill my guts in front of a room full of rapists and murderers.”

“So you won’t speak to me?”

He pokes at the inside of his cheek with his tongue, appearing to think about her question, the silence feeling as though it could fill the vastness of an ocean.

“You seem…earnest,” he finally says, “get media visitation and you’ll have your interview.”

He slaps the flat of his hand against the top of the table, an indication that the conversation is at its end, and stands, walking slowly back over to the door he had entered through.

As the guard unlocks it, allowing him to leave, he casts one last look at her over his shoulder. It’s a pointed stare, one that lets her know that this isn’t up for debate. It’s no longer a question of if she can get a media visit, it’s when and how.

The moment she’s back on the ferry, she calls Larys, knowing that if anyone can acquire a media visit with any modicum of urgency it will be him. She is relieved when he picks up on the third ring, and she wastes no time in getting straight to the point.

“He won’t speak to me without a media visit.”

“Hello to you too,” he drawls.

She exhales heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. “The trial is in a few weeks, if I apply for it myself then it’ll take months. I need you to–”

Her phone beeps, the screen going black as her battery dies.

Fuck.

She had forgotten to switch it off before handing it to the guards, and the incoming emails and messages she’d received during her visit had drained it.

It’s evening by the time she gets home, the sun having set long ago on her journey from Dragonstone back to King’s Landing. Eagerly, she plugs her phone in to charge, restlessly tapping her foot as she waits for it to power back on.

Her heart skips, relief flooding her as the screen lights up and she is immediately met with a Whatsapp notification from Larys.

“Have been trying to reach you. Media visit is arranged for the day after tomorrow. Can you make it?”

With shaking fingers, she types back a reply, apologising, explaining her phone had died and confirming her availability. A few minutes later, he responds, telling her he will follow up with further information shortly.

It’s finally happening, she has her interview.

The following morning, her presence in the office feels like a mere farce to fill time, with no intention of starting the Flea Bottom piece, there is no real reason for her to be there, yet she has to keep up appearances until she has copy finalised for the story she actually intends to write. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission in this case.

She decides to fill her time with further background research and laying down the basic introduction for the piece, time is of the essence so it’s better to get a head start where she can. Less than ten minutes have passed when she hears the clearing of a throat behind her. Startled, she minimises her Word document and turns to see Royce looming over her.

“How’s the Flea Bottom piece coming along?” He asks, gesturing towards her computer monitor with his coffee mug.

“Oh…yeah,” she lies, with a tight smile, “making great progress with it, should have copy for you soon.”

He raises an eyebrow, looking at her incredulously, before taking a slow sip of coffee.

“Tell me then, if you are working on the Flea Bottom piece, what are you doing visiting Dragonstone Prison?”

Her face blanches as she stares up at him, her mouth running dry as she thinks of what to say. She has nothing.

“I–”

“My office. Now.”

He turns and strides back towards his small corner office, leaving the door ajar for her to follow.

It feels as though she is trudging through treacle as she makes her way across the newsroom, her heart pounding in her chest as she steps into the figurative lion’s den, expecting to be told her employment is terminated for openly defying a commission from not just her editor, but the editor of the Duskendale Gazette.

Sheepishly, she shuts the door behind her, pressing her back against the wood as her eyes raise to meet Royce’s, who sits behind his desk, visibly seething with annoyance. There’s no use in denying it, so she decides to get straight to the point.

“How did you find out?” She asks, her voice barely above a whisper as she clasps her hands in front of her.

“Larys Strong left a voicemail on the office’s answering machine yesterday evening, confirming your media visit to the prison tomorrow.”

Shit. He must have called the office when he couldn’t get through to her mobile.

He continues before she has a chance to respond. “I’ve told you already, to leave that story alone. Were I a less understanding employer, I’d fire you for insubordination, but I’m willing to be reasonable. You’re to drop whatever it is you’re pursuing and continue with the story you’ve been assigned. Is that clear?”

She sighs, bowing her head momentarily, before stepping towards his desk. Her tone is imploring, her stare pleading as she looks at him. “Royce, Larys Strong is Aemond Targaryen’s legal representation. They’ve chosen me, us, the Duskendale Gazette over all publications to run an exposé on him ahead of the upcoming trial! There is something there, I know there is, you have to let me pursue this. Please!”

Royce groans in frustration, carding his fingers through his dark curls. “You know I can’t allow you to do this, you could be accused of media bias, influencing the jury. That’s not a risk a publication as small as this one can afford to take.”

“The article isn’t going to mention the trial, or the allegations being made. I intend for it to be a profile piece. Aemond has never spoken to the media before, he is incredibly private. This would be an exclusive, we’d be doing something no other newspaper or magazine has done before. It takes months to get a media visit, Larys has gotten me one in two days. It would be stupid to waste this opportunity.”

She takes another step forward, now standing directly behind the chair that occupies the opposite side of Royce’s desk, silently hoping she has said enough to convince him.

He sighs, shoulders sagging slightly, as he regards her with a look of resignation. “I’ll let you do it, but I have conditions.”

Her heart soars, her eyes widening hopefully as she nods enthusiastically. “Anything.”

“You won’t be reporting on the trial itself once it starts. And I want copy in two weeks.”

She recoils at this, given how stony Aemond had been on their first meeting, she knows it will be virtually impossible to get him to say enough to fulfill that sort of deadline. She had been hoping to push right up to the day before the trial began.

“Two weeks?! Royce, that’s not even enough time to get the interviews I’ll need!”

“I’m not taking the risk of being accused of influencing the jury,” he retorts. “Two weeks, or I’m tanking this, got it?”

“Got it,” she replies quietly, her previous elation withering and dying as quickly as it had burst to life.

Two weeks to get Aemond to open up. Two weeks to save her career.

The moment she is out of Royce’s office, she calls Larys, overwhelmed by annoyance at the trouble he has gotten her into and eager to give him a piece of her mind.

“You left a voicemail at my office,” she says irritably, when he eventually picks up.

He hums affirmatively into the receiver. “Well, your mobile was switched off.”

“You’ve gotten me into so much trouble with my boss, he almost pulled the plug on all of this!”

She hears him exhale slowly, pausing before responding. “But he hasn’t, so that’s a good thing.”

“I’m not allowed to report on the trial either, and I have to have the entire piece finished in two weeks.”

“Well, consider it a blessing. Minimal risk of media bias, you now have permission to write the story too. Wouldn’t it be a shame to go to all that effort to have it wasted at the eleventh hour, because your editor won’t approve it?”

Her eyes narrow, her voice lowering in an accusatory tone. “You did this deliberately, didn’t you?”

He lets out a quiet laugh that travels through the phone as a breathy sigh. “There is rarely anything I do that isn’t a calculated choice. I think you’ll find my actions have been mutually beneficial. Good luck with your visitation tomorrow.”

There is a click before the line goes dead. He’s hung up. 

She wants to be angry, but she knows he’s right. Without the need for secrecy, this piece will be far easier to write, even with an impossible deadline.

There is a marked difference between this morning’s visit to Dragonstone Prison and the one previous. As soon as she checks in at the ferry terminal, she is ushered towards her own private boat and transported across the Gullet. There is no wait time once she arrives and, though she is searched, she is allowed to keep her electronic devices with her.

The room she is led to is small; plain white walls and a white floor, with only a table and two chairs, the same as the ones in the visitation room, at the centre of it. The blinking red light of a CCTV camera placed in the top corner by the door catches her eye, reminding her of the profundity of her location.

Over the last couple of days, she has been distracted by the stress of Royce finding out what she has secretly been working on, and preparing for the interview, so much so that she has quite forgotten just how foreboding the presence of Aemond Targaryen is.

She is delivered a stark reminder as he is led into the room, clad in the same grey prison scrubs he’d been wearing on her first visit, his wrists handcuffed in front of him. It feels as though all the air leaves the compact space as he enters it. His posture is immutable as always, his head held high, and his gaze immediately fixes upon her, an unmistakable glint in his eye as he stares at her. She stares back, hoping she appears more impassive than she feels, but there is an underlying fear that if he really wanted to hurt her then there is little the cuffs he wears could do to stop him.

“Bang on the door if you need anything,” the guard tells her, breaking her out of her reverie, “you’ve got one hour.”

The fact that there will be someone stationed outside of the door helps her to relax a little and she decides that this time she won’t allow for him to have the upper hand, moving to take her seat before Aemond does, as the guard leaves, locking them both in.

She keeps her attention on the table in front of her, placing her dictaphone in the middle, as Aemond slips into the chair on the opposite side of it.

“How are you today?” She asks, keeping her tone casual as she fiddles with the settings of the recording device.

“Incarcerated,” he answers simply, his voice conveying no emotion.

She sighs, glancing up at him. “I went to the effort to get a media visit, as you requested, I hope you’re feeling a little more talkative today.”

“The effort that Larys went to,” he corrects her. “You seem to forget that you stand to gain something from this too.”

Biting back the heated retort she wants to make, she ignores his comment. “This will be a profile piece, we’re not going to talk about the upcoming trial, we don’t even need to talk about your nephew if you’d prefer not to.”

“A little hard to avoid that,” he says, lips quirking slightly. His cuffs give a metallic clink as he lifts his hands towards his face, tapping at the ragged scar on the left side of his face. “Luke is the reason I have this.”

Her lips part slightly, eyes widening in shock as she stares at him. “Lucerys did that to you?”

Aemond nods, lowering his hands into his lap. “When we were children. It was a petty squabble at a birthday party. I threw the first punch, but he lashed out with a knife, and I’ve been left with a permanent reminder of the fact.

An overwhelming surge of pity courses through her, her face softening as she looks at him. She wants to say something to comfort him, but he stops her before she has the opportunity.

“I don’t need your pity. It’s been fifteen years. Let’s just get on with the interview, time is running out.”

She clears her throat, shifting in her seat as her thumb presses down on the record button of her dictaphone. “Right, let’s start with your childhood.”

The hour vanishes into nothing as she asks Aemond probing questions about what he was like as a child, how his relationship with his family was and what his upbringing was like. A tale of fatherly neglect, of children living in the shadow of their older half sister unfolds as he tells her of how he grew up teased by his older brother, Aegon, and bullied by his nephews, Jacaerys and Lucerys. The only members of his family that he ever received anything close to affection from were his mother and his sister, Helaena.

She pays rapt attention, her heart aches for him, though her sympathy comes in short lived bursts, as every time his knee accidentally grazes hers beneath the table, it chills her blood and causes her skin to break out into gooseflesh. At least she assumes it’s accidental.

They draw to a natural stopping point and she switches the recording device off. The one question she has never asked, that there has been a complete media black out in terms of details, is precisely how Aemond killed Lucerys. Her curiosity gets the better of her and the question passes her lips before she can stop herself.

“How did it happen?”

Aemond tenses, jaw clenching as he stares at her intently. He swallows thickly, then responds, “you mean how did I kill him? I trust that this is off the record?”

She nods, afraid that if she speaks she’ll scare him off of opening up to her.

“I lost control of my car, and I hit him. He died.”

There is no hint of remorse evident in his voice, he responds as though she has asked him for the time. She is struck by how matter of fact he is. Surely, if it was accidental then he’d show even a slither of emotion? Just as she’s about to question him further, the door swings open and the guard informs her that her time is up.

She has barely scratched the surface of Aemond Targaryen, she knows if she is to write a feature that is even half decent she’ll need more time with him. She is grateful that Larys informs her has managed to secure two further media visits, and over the following week she gets to know Aemond better - at least what he is willing to share with her.

He is intelligent, with a keen interest in history and philosophy. He does not share his brother’s love of socialite status, preferring to dedicate his time to reading and fitness. Unwavering in his loyalty to his family, he had taken up a position at his grandfather’s law firm up until the point of his arrest. Aemond Targaryen’s life is one that is shrouded in solitude and tragedy. Aemond embodies pieces of a broken antique vase; the idea of putting him back together is beautiful, but there is the inevitable risk of cutting yourself if you attempt to try.

She does not bring up the death of Lucerys again, telling herself it will be easier to get him to talk if they stick to subjects that don’t make him uncomfortable. However, deep down she knows that she hadn’t liked what she’d heard when she’d asked him the first time, she hadn’t enjoyed the way his response had made her feel. Better to avoid the fear than face it head on.

As their final interview comes to its end, she switches off the dictaphone, expecting a cordial and brief farewell, before the guard re-enters to take Aemond away once more. She is surprised when, after a moment of keeping his gaze fixed on his cuffed wrists that rest on the table in front of him, he looks up at her and asks; “will you be at the trial?”

She pauses momentarily, as she’s slipping her equipment back into her bag, taken aback by his question. “Oh…um…well, I’m not going to be covering it.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t sit in the public gallery.”

“Are you saying you want me to be there?”

Aemond gives a slight shrug. “You’ve come this far. May as well see it through to the end.”

He’s right, as he frustratingly always seems to be. She responds with a slight nod, moving to stand. She is unsure how exactly to bid him farewell, this is the last time she will ever be in such close proximity to him. Looking at how his wrists are shackled, she knows a hand shake would be inappropriate. She shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, deciding eventually to keep things formal.

“Well, Larys will provide you with the article once it’s published. Thank you for taking the time to speak to me.”

He grins wolfishly at this, staring up at her intently. “Thank you. I’m sure you’ll make me leap right off the page.”

His words stay with her, echoing in her mind long after she has left the prison. Though her time with Aemond is at its end, she knows his impact upon her is one that will last a lifetime. The intensity of his one eyed stare is forever burned into her mind, the lilt of his voice one that scratches at the recesses of her mind, and with the article still to write she knows she is far from free of him. While Aemond is quite literally imprisoned, he has her trapped in a cell of his own creation, one that she won’t be freed from until the words are on the page.

As she walks to the office, preparing to transcribe her interviews, her phone vibrates in her bag. Pulling it out she sees Larys’ name on her screen, and quickly presses to accept the call. She barely has time to greet him before he begins speaking, and she pushes a finger to her ear to better hear him over the sound of passing traffic.

“Have you got everything you need?” His tone is strained, an undercurrent of urgency in his voice that she’s never heard before.

“As far as my interviews with Aemond are concerned, yes. It would give a more well rounded piece if other members of the family were prepared to talk, but we’ve already established that that’s not an option.”

“Aegon and Helaena have agreed to speak with you,” he informs her quickly.

Her eyes widen in shock, and she ducks down a side street, shifting the phone to the other side of her head, wanting to give him her full attention. “Why the sudden change? What’s happened?”

“Rhaenyra has gotten wind of the fact that Aemond has spoken to the press, so now she’s doing an interview too – with White Knight Magazine.”

Chapter one || Chapter three || Series masterlist

[rooksunday]

fluffcember day eighteen: mistletoe

"Are you sure this is appropriate, sir?" Bly asked nervously.

General Secura nodded. "Very. It's traditional."

"What, uh, what's the tradition about? Just checking for the purposes of the report."

The report that someone would definitely be making. Bly knew that much. He just couldn't decide whether it'd be used as evidence for his court martial or not. In any case, accuracy would be important.

General Secura continued to play the deceptively innocent stem with its white buds between her fingers. Her long lashes brushed her cheeks as she looked at the flower.

"Mistletoe symbolises new life and new beginnings. Certain fertility—"

"Fertility?" Fierfiek. Bly's voice hadn’t squeaked like that since he'd been in his blues. Heat rushed to his face. "Pardon me, sir, but," he lowered his voice and darted a look around the small market, "are we being co-opted into a local fertility ritual? You know there's established procedure for that—"

Laughter bubbled from General Secura and she covered her smile with one elegant, bruised-knuckled hand. Her lekku twisted in the way that Bly had learnt meant she was particularly amused. Heat touched his cheeks but he didn't look away from her. He couldn't. He didn't understand how anyone could.

"There is no ritual on this occasion, Commander Bly, I promise. What if I… Look, over there. Do you see those two near the food stalls?"

General Secura pointed toward two humanoids, somewhere toward the end of their growth cycles, who were standing beneath the awning of a dumpling stall. One tugged the other by the hand, smiled, and pointed to the beam above their heads, where a sprig of mistletoe hung.

"General—"

"Ssh, just watch."

Bly shifted in place, but he'd done more difficult things for his General. He watched, something twisting in his stomach, uncertain if he was meant to intervene or— Oh. Oh. One of the two humanoids had brushed a kiss on the others' cheek. Then the second— Bly averted his eyes.

"Well. Perhaps the spice of the food carts inspired them," General Secura said, clearing her throat, though her lekku continued to betray her amusement. "That isn't what I… I am sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable, Commander."

"No, sir. You didn't," Bly said, concentrating on keeping his voice steady. He worked his hands at his sides and mustered the courage to meet General Secura's eyes again. "May I examine the mistletoe, sir?"

"Of course."

Bly turned the little plant over in his hands. Such a small thing, for such a big invitation. He gently rubbed one of the leaves between finger and thumb. General Secura—Aayla, perhaps, if he dared—watched him with the same steady patience she always did.

It had been her idea to come to the market, but she had been genuinely surprised to see the mistletoe hanging in on the stalls. There had been no design. Merely opportunity.

An opportunity Bly now held in his hands.

He smiled, and held the mistletoe above their heads. Aayla let out a soft noise and her cheeks deepened to violet.

"Well then. Let's get traditional, shall we?" Bly asked.

Aayla grinned, and leaned in.

[heallearngrow3]

the joy of ignorance

part 1 | the joy of ignorance

pairing: Connor x f!Reader

summary: “Solitude matters, and for some people, it’s the air they breathe.”

warnings: none

notes: it’s my first fanfic so please, be patient with me. also, after this one, the chapters are going to become excruciatingly long, so buckle up!

The first reports were not alarming. They were accounted for as simple mechanical disturbances, which, in all cases, proved to be unavoidable. Although seemingly impossible expectations were set for all employees, even that was no guarantee that an android wouldn’t make irrational decisions as a result of a possible faulty code. The rudimentary cases, which could hardly be called violent, seemed to be random, and the company made sure to provide adequate compensation to the victims. The deviant androids were recalled — citing maintenance procedures — and owners were sent a new, flawless model, assuring them that no inconvenience would occur again.

It was easy to sweep the problems caused by incompetent robots under the rug: they were deactivated, then sent to a landfill and people forgot that they ever existed. There were no reports of unfortunate malfunctions, and owners didn't ask questions after the replacement of their previous Androids.

You spent years perfecting your designs. In the beginning, you only dared to entertain the idea that robots would be an integral part of your lives, but lately, your dreams became reality, and you watched - almost mesmerized - as your world radically changed. Androids were designed to obey and assist humans. Elijah Kamski's masterpieces fulfilled the role they were assigned. Within a strict framework, they behaved mechanically and, unlike humans, they did not need food or sleep, so they were available every minute of the day. You had a key role in the creation of many types, and after the head of the company - Elijah - resigned from his position, in exchange for a quieter life, in his words, you took over the control over the production of Cyber ​​Life models.

The threat of the androids' ever-increasing deviance loomed over you like a shadow, threatening that at any moment, one wrong decision on your part would unleash a wildfire beyond your control.

The Cyber ​​Life Tower was located in an area outside the city, hiding it from the prying eyes of Detroit. The monumental building with its forty-nine floors was tasked with completing several procedures, including the production of the machines and the implementation of rudimentary experimental processes. You often didn't even go home, your rural, two-story house was a seemingly endless distance away, and you, yourself, found it difficult to leave the protective walls of your office. The tower was guarded by hundreds of soldiers, ensuring that no one could get in or out without monitoring. You were initially uncomfortable by the over-the-top security measures, but after the recent events, you felt relieved. They made sure that no one would think of attacking the tower: it would have been a suicide. The androids had a great risk assessment ability, they were able to determine with percent accuracy how much danger each scenario entailed, and in the case of the Cyber ​​Tower, it was high. Not only the guards were a threat, the premises were protected by numerous hindrances: the workers were identified based on their voice and DNA, and they could only pass through the gates at the entrance with a hologram card.

You felt lost. With glassy eyes, you scanned the endless skyscrapers of Detroit while twirling the pen in your shaking hand. You could have left the building at the end of your working hours, but you decided to stay. Starring the papers scattered on your table, you were sure that you wouldn’t be able to get through them before morning. Passing by your office, many cast questioning glances at the pile of paper, mainly because by then, digital notebooks had become widespread, and they would have made your work significantly easier, but you were unable to bring yourself to break free from your habits. You didn't want to give up the feeling as you ran your ballpoint pen over them, and you liked to believe that you were doing a more efficient job this way. Getting your thoughts down required more attention than a simple touch transfer to a tablet.

You looked up at the sound of the TV mounted on the wall. The news channel served as background noise, but the announcer's words rang bittersweetly in your ears.

“More complaints about deviant androids have been received by the Detroit Police Department. An AX400 shot its owner with a loaded gun, and a RK200 attacked a young woman with her bare hands. We all ask the question: can we feel safe in our own home? Let's switch to reporter Joss Douglas from Detroit, who will cover the details of the chilling events.” The reporter's voice blurred into the soft, constant humming noise of the ventilation system.

You shook your head in resignation and turned off the device with a firm motion.

✇

The hours stretched into each other, and you didn't even realize when the first rays of the sun forced their way through the gaps of the curtains, lighting up the office. Your eyes felt heavy, your arms laid numb on the table, and you sometimes had to shake your head to keep yourself awake. It was these moments that made you truly understand that this wasn’t just a job for you. You considered it your mission to create androids that would not only make living easier, but also shape the future.

The ringing of your phone pulled you out of your thoughts. Glancing down at your wrist, you noted that, given the early hours, it seemed unreasonable for a Cyber ​​Life employee to be looking for you.

You pressed the accept button with a small sigh.

“[Name], how can I help you?“

"Good morning, ma’am! I apologize for bothering you so early, but it’s an urgent issue. I'm Jeffrey Flower, Chief of the Detroit Police Department.“

You winced involuntarily.

"Please, continue.” your voice seemed unnaturally high, despite the fact that you tried to sound determined.

“It‘s about the deviant androids, but I can't say more than that. I would like to discuss the details in person, ma’am”

Fowler's succinct wording only raised more questions and alarm bells went off in your mind.

"Excuse me, sir, but I believe you're talking to the wrong person. I'm not in charge of the press department. I can transfer your call if you want me to.”

After a few seconds, Fowler spoke again.

"I know who you are. And I’m also sure that you are the one who can help us. Please just listen to what I have to say. You can still refuse my offer after that”

It crossed your mind to just hang up the call without an answer, but your ever-increasing curiosity proved to be stronger.

"This morning?" you asked.

"I can see you in my office at half past eleven.”

You nodded cautiously, even though Fowler couldn't see it.

”I'll be there.” you swallowed your uneasy questions. “Goodbye Mr. Fowler.”

Ending the call, you couldn't help but wonder how significant it was that the police specifically wanted to talk to you out of all people.

The cause of your worry was far from something preventing you from talking openly about the company and the machines they designed. Unlike most, you weren't held back by a strict NDA, but you still had a strange sense of loyalty tied to Cyber ​​Life, the company which gave you a life, gave you a chance to start over and prove you were more than a programmer. Through the company, you were able to make your dreams come true, and for that, you owed them endless gratitude.

You couldn't explain why, but you were deeply dreading the meeting with Fowler.

[callmedaleelah]

— Pinnacle [ tsukishima kei university au series ]

— i got wasted like all my potential ; after your repeated mistakes, struggles with the lab work, and lack of progress, tsukishima scolds you harshly till you’re breaking down in front of him

author’s notes : no mention of (y/n), written in second person pov, semi alternative universe, timeskip!tsukishima, college life, not proofread, english is not my first language

[ masterlist ] | #daleelahwritings🐭

The air in the lab was always thick with the scent of chemicals, the hum of equipment, and the nervous energy of students trying to avoid mistakes. Each week, the practicum grew more complex. What started as simple measurements and basic reactions quickly escalated into multi-step processes that demanded precision and a deep understanding of biochemistry—both of which you struggled with.

Today’s experiment involved a protein extraction procedure. The lab instructions were dense with scientific jargon that made your head spin. You reread the steps multiple times, trying to make sense of them, but it was like trying to decipher a foreign language. Around you, your classmates were already setting up their stations with practiced ease, moving in groups they had long since formed. You couldn’t help but notice how seamlessly they worked together, exchanging tips and helping each other out.

You glanced over at Tsukishima, who was busy assisting another group with the accuracy of their results. He looked so calm and collected, his tall figure standing out as he leaned over to explain something with a level of patience that was hard to reconcile with the way he always seemed to snap at you.

Determined not to mess up again, you carefully measured out the reagents, trying to remember everything Tsukishima had scolded you about last time. But as you transferred the solution into the centrifuge, your hand slipped, and the liquid spilled across the countertop. Panic surged through you as you frantically tried to clean up the mess, knowing that this mistake would not go unnoticed.

And it didn’t.

Tsukishima’s shadow fell over your station, and you froze, your heart pounding. He let out a long sigh, his frustration palpable. “Are you even trying to read the instructions?” His voice was low but edged with irritation. “I showed you this step just last week. How could you mess it up again?”

You bit your lip, tears threatening to well up in your eyes. The entire class seemed to have paused, all too familiar with the routine by now—another day, another scolding. It felt like everyone was waiting for you to break under the pressure, to finally admit that you didn’t belong here.

But Tsukishima, as harsh as he was, didn’t walk away. Instead, he grabbed another set of reagents and started the process from scratch. “Pay attention this time,” he muttered, demonstrating the steps once more. He moved with the precision and confidence of someone who had done this countless times before. “You need to stop being so careless. This isn’t something you can just half-ass.”

His words stung, but you nodded, forcing yourself to focus on what he was doing. He had a way of making you feel like a complete idiot, yet there was something in the way he didn’t just abandon you that kept you from giving up entirely.

As he handed the equipment back to you, his gaze softened slightly. “If you keep making the same mistakes, you’ll never get this. You need to practice more, or you’re going to fail.”

“I’m trying,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I really am.”

“Try harder,” he snapped, but his tone lacked the usual bite. You couldn’t tell if he was genuinely angry or just tired of seeing you struggle. He watched as you completed the step under his supervision, nodding slightly when you finally managed to do it correctly.

Over the next few weeks, the pattern continued. Each lab session brought a new challenge, and with it, more opportunities to mess up. Whether it was miscalculating concentrations, mixing up solutions, or just getting lost in the labyrinth of complex procedures, it seemed like you were always on the verge of disaster. And Tsukishima, true to form, was always there to call you out on it.

“Did you even check the pH before adding that buffer?” he asked one afternoon, his eyes narrowing as he looked over your notes. “This is basic stuff. You should know better by now.”

You hung your head, feeling the heat of embarrassment rising in your cheeks. It wasn’t just his words; it was the weight of knowing that you were disappointing him again and again.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, not for the first time.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Being sorry isn’t going to help you pass this class. Are you just trying to waste my time?”

His question hit you harder than you expected, and you could feel your throat tighten. You had spent so much time just trying to survive each practicum that you hadn’t really stopped to think about why you were doing this in the first place. But instead of answering, you chose to keep silent, hoping that maybe this time, your apology would be enough to placate him.

Tsukishima remained silent, clearly waiting for you to say more, to give him something to work with. He wanted you to argue back, to tell him what you were struggling with so he could actually help. But when all you offered was another weak, “I’m sorry,” you could see the disappointment flicker in his eyes.

He hissed with tiredness and frustration. “Well then, you’ve got your goal so perfectly. Congratulations on making me waste my time on you.” His tone was bitter, laced with a sharp edge that cut deeper than any of his previous scoldings. “If you’re just going to keep saying ‘sorry’ and not actually try to improve, then maybe you should rethink why you’re even here.”

After his scolding, Tsukishima turned away from you, leaving you to struggle on your own. The weight of his words pressed down on you, making it difficult to focus, but you forced yourself to push through. Determined not to be the failure he saw you as, you stayed long after the other students had left, methodically redoing each experiment that you had messed up earlier.

The lab was eerily quiet, the only sounds being the faint hum of the equipment and your own breath. It took hours, but eventually, you managed to complete the tasks, albeit with trembling hands and an exhausted mind.

You silently placed your lab report on Tsukishima's desk, hoping this ordeal would be over. As you turned away to return to your station and pack up, you heard him flip through the pages. His silence was unnerving, and just as you were about to make your escape, his voice, laced with irritation, stopped you in your tracks.

“Is this your idea of fixing things?” His tone was biting, and you flinched, slowly turning back to face him.

He was staring at the report with a look of deep dissatisfaction. “You’ve been here for hours, and this is the best you can do?”

You felt your heart sink. “I—I tried to—”

“Try harder!” he snapped, his frustration boiling over. He stood up, towering over you, the full weight of his height and anger making you feel small and insignificant. “Do you even care about this? Because right now, it seems like you’re wasting both your time and mine.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back tears, but his harsh words felt like daggers. “I’m sorry…”

“Stop saying you’re sorry!” he cut you off sharply. “I don’t want apologies. I want results! Do you even understand how much effort it takes to fix your mistakes? And yet, you keep making the same ones over and over. It’s like you’re not even trying to improve.”

The tears you’d been holding back started to well up in your eyes, blurring your vision. You wanted to defend yourself, to explain that you were doing your best, but the words got stuck in your throat. All you could manage was a pathetic, “I’m trying…”

“Trying?” Tsukishima scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “If this is your idea of trying, then you’re hopeless. At this rate, you’re going to fail this class, and I’ll be the one who has to watch you flounder around, wasting everyone’s time.”

His words were like a punch to the gut. The tears you’d been fighting so hard to hold back finally spilled over, and you quickly looked down, not wanting him to see.

But it was too late. Tsukishima noticed, and for a moment, his expression flickered with something other than anger—maybe regret, or concern—but it was quickly masked by his frustration. “Crying isn’t going to help either,” he muttered, though his voice had lost some of its edge.

You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, trying to steady your breathing. You wanted to disappear, to run away from his harsh gaze and never come back. But you were stuck, rooted to the spot by your own shame and helplessness.

He sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then, in a quieter tone, he added, “Why are you even here if this isn’t what you want to do? If you’re just going to half-ass everything and cry whenever things get tough, then maybe you should think about whether this is the right path for you.”

That was the final straw. The weight of everything—your struggles, his harsh words, the pressure from your parents—came crashing down on you all at once. A sob broke free, and before you knew it, you were crying in earnest, the kind of crying that came from deep within, raw and uncontrollable.

Tsukishima looked alarmed, clearly not expecting this reaction. For a moment, he stood frozen, unsure of what to do. But then, awkwardly, he stepped closer to you, hesitating before finally placing a hand on your shoulder. “Hey, stop that,” he said, his voice much softer now, almost gentle. “I didn’t mean to… damn it.”

You couldn’t stop crying, no matter how much you tried to pull yourself together. The stress, the fear, the overwhelming sense of failure—it all came pouring out.

Realizing that his words had done more damage than he intended, Tsukishima, still awkward and hesitant, did the only thing he could think of to comfort you. He pulled you into a hug, his tall frame enveloping you, one hand gently rubbing your back as he murmured a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

You clung to him, the warmth of his embrace and the unexpected softness in his voice finally starting to soothe the raw edges of your emotions. Tsukishima held you, his own heart pounding in his chest, wondering how he’d let things get so out of hand.

As your sobs began to quiet, he pulled back slightly, just enough to look down at you. His usual cold demeanor was gone, replaced by an expression of concern and regret. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh,” he admitted, his voice low. “But you have to understand… I just don’t want to see you fail.”

You sniffled, wiping your eyes with your sleeve, still shaken but calmed by his unexpected kindness. “I… I’ll try harder,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Tsukishima sighed, his hand still resting on your shoulder. “Just… don’t push yourself too hard, okay?” He paused, looking down at you with something softer in his gaze. “We’ll get through this, together.”

He sighed, letting go of you and running a hand through his hair. “Look, just… try not to take everything so personally. I’m hard on you because I want you to do well. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t bother.”

You blinked up at him, surprised by his honesty. “You… care?”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t read too much into it. I just don’t want to see you fail.”

Despite his words, you couldn’t help but feel a small spark of hope ignite in your chest. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to Tsukishima’s grumpy exterior than he let on. And maybe, if you kept trying, you could prove to him—and to yourself—that you were capable of more than just making mistakes.