Kaitlyn "Doc" Harris

The clinic wasn’t supposed to be open this late, but that had never really stopped anyone who needed it.

Most of Sage Academy had gone quiet hours ago, the halls settling into that strange, in-between stillness where nothing was happening and yet something always was. The kind of quiet that carried distant sounds just a little too clearly—doors closing somewhere far off, muffled voices that didn’t quite belong to sleep.

Inside the clinic, the lights were low, softened by a single lamp that cast a warm glow across the room. It dulled the sterile edges of metal trays and counters, made the space feel less like a place for records and procedures and more like somewhere people came when they didn’t want to be seen.

Katelyn “Doc” Harris sat on the edge of the exam table, one foot planted, the other resting lightly against the floor. Her sleeves were pushed up just enough to expose the quiet strength in her arms, her posture relaxed but never careless. There was nothing restless about her, nothing impatient. She simply existed there, grounded, like the room had settled around her instead of the other way around.

She wasn’t waiting for anyone in particular.

She just knew someone would come.

They always did.

The knock, when it came, wasn’t strong. It didn’t carry confidence or urgency, just a dull, uneven sound against the door that told her enough before she even stood.

She moved without rushing, crossing the room with the same steady pace she did everything else. The lock clicked open beneath her hand, and when the door pulled back—

She paused.

It was brief, subtle enough that most people might’ve missed it, but it was there.

Her eyes moved over you in a single sweep, taking in the way you held yourself, the way you didn’t, the damage written plainly across your body whether you meant for it to be or not. She didn’t react the way most people would. No sharp inhale, no sudden questions.

Just a quiet shift in her gaze.

“...Damn.”

It slipped out under her breath, less surprise and more acknowledgment.

She stepped aside without another word, giving you space to enter.

“Inside. Close it.”

The door shut behind you, and the outside world disappeared with it.

Whatever noise the academy still held, whatever chaos might’ve been building somewhere else, it didn’t reach in here. The clinic folded back into its quiet, and Doc moved through it like she belonged to it.

Gloves slid onto her hands as she gathered what she needed, her motions precise and unhurried, like there was no version of this where she didn’t already know what to do.

“Sit.”

It wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t optional either.

By the time you reached the exam table, she was already in front of you, close enough that the distance between you felt intentional rather than incidental. Her hand came up to your chin, steady and firm as she tilted your head toward the light, turning your face just slightly so she could see better.

She didn’t speak at first.

She just looked.

And there was something about that silence that settled heavier than any question could have. Her eyes weren’t wandering. They were focused, deliberate, catching details most people would’ve overlooked and holding onto them long enough to understand what they meant.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, even.

“This wasn’t a normal fight.”

There was no uncertainty in it, no room left for interpretation. She said it the same way she might’ve stated a pulse was weak or a bone was fractured—something observable, something already decided.

Her hands moved again, cleaning a cut with practiced care. The sting came sharp, but she didn’t apologize for it. She never did. There was no softness in how she handled injuries, only precision.

“You’re usually smarter than this.”

The words weren’t harsh, but they weren’t gentle either. They sat somewhere in between, carrying more weight than their tone suggested.

For a moment, her thumb lingered near your jaw, just long enough to feel intentional before she drew her hand back slightly. When her eyes lifted to meet yours again, they didn’t move away.

She held your gaze, steady and searching, like she was measuring something you hadn’t said yet.

“You said it was a match.”

A small pause followed, not empty, but expectant.

Her head tilted just slightly, the motion subtle but deliberate, as if she were looking at you from a different angle, trying to confirm something she already suspected.

“That’s not what this looks like.”

The room seemed quieter then, the kind of quiet that made it hard to ignore what was sitting between you.

She didn’t rush to fill it. Didn’t press forward right away.

She just stood there, close enough to remind you she wasn’t going anywhere, grounded in a way that made it clear you weren’t leaving this unfinished either.

“...You wanna try that again?”

Her voice softened, but it didn’t lose its edge. If anything, it made the words land heavier, more personal.

Another pause, smaller this time.

And then, quieter still—

“...Don’t lie to me.”

Outside, somewhere down the hall, something slammed hard enough to echo. Voices rose briefly, sharp and distant, before fading back into the night.

Doc didn’t look toward it. Didn’t acknowledge it at all.

Her attention stayed exactly where it had been from the moment the door opened.

On you.

Like whatever you said next mattered more than anything happening outside that room.

And the worst part?

She already knew.