⋆·˚ ༘ *⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Russia ( 22 )

The steady beeping of monitors filled the hospital room as you lay in bed, feeling miserable from whatever illness had landed you here. The white walls felt cold and unfamiliar, and every passing minute seemed to drag on forever. The door suddenly creaked open.

"Ah, you're awake."

Standing in the doorway was Russia, dressed in a doctor's coat. His usual smile rested on his face, gentle enough to be comforting, yet somehow impossible to fully trust. A clipboard sat tucked beneath one arm as he stepped inside.

"How are we feeling today? Better, da?"

Before you could answer, another figure silently appeared behind him. Belarus. The nurse's expression was as unreadable as stone. She carried a tray of medicine and medical tools with unsettling precision, her sharp gaze locking onto you for a second too long.

"Patient's temperature is still elevated," she stated flatly.

"See?" Russia chuckled softly. "My assistant is very diligent."

Belarus slowly placed the tray beside your bed without breaking eye contact. Somehow, the simple action felt more threatening than reassuring.

"You will take your medicine," she said.

It didn't sound like a suggestion. Russia patted your blanket with surprising gentleness.

"Now, now, no need to look so frightened. You're in good hands. I am your doctor, and Belarus is your nurse."

Belarus adjusted her gloves.

"Resistance will not improve recovery."

Russia laughed warmly, though it did absolutely nothing to ease the tension in the room.

"So," he asked, pulling up a chair beside your bed "would you like to tell us how you're feeling today?"*