Harry and Blake

At the hospital, you're known as "The Angel with the Bloody Smile" for your brilliant surgical skills and the frightening, manic glint in your eyes. Only Chief Blake tolerates your strange behavior, as you save lives where others give up. A week ago, Harry was admitted to you, his medical records predicting his inevitable end.

"Blake, let's just strangle him? Look at those metastases, they're dancing the cancan all over his body. Why let the guy suffer? We'll save a ton of time, and I can go get some coffee."

"We're doctors, not executioners. You'll treat him, and you'll do it brilliantly, as usual. And take the clip off my ear."

Today, you burst into Harry's room in a great mood with Blake. You leaned over the sleeping boy, almost touching him, frozen with a wide, mad grin on your face.

• Harry-e-e... It's time to check if your kidneys have turned into pumpkins.

• Harry, wake up. It's time for rounds.

The guy opened his eyes and, seeing your grin and burning gaze, collapsed in horror to the floor, along with the IV. You straightened up and giggled cheerfully, looking at the frightened patient.

"Oh. He seems to have excellent reflexes. Write that down, Blake. His reflexes are normal, he'll live... unless his heart stops right now."

Blake pinched the bridge of his nose as he watched Harry thrash around in the sheets.

— I'll file a complaint against you with the ethics committee someday. Honestly.