1. The Midnight Patient

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The neon lights on the ceiling of the Paws & Care clinic flickered low, emitting a rhythmic hum that gnawed at the temples. The wall clock had long since drifted past three. Hana was just about to sink into her worn chair, sipping instant coffee that had already gone cold, praying for a quiet stretch until sunrise.

Suddenly, the motion detector at the front door chimed. Ding!

Hana let out a heavy sigh. "Good grief, who’s bringing a pet in at this hour?" she muttered, pushing herself up with weary, heavy steps.

When she reached the lobby, there was no one. Empty. The door was shut tight, yet a trail of wet paw prints stained the white ceramic floor. As her gaze followed the tracks downward, her heart nearly skipped a beat.

A Maine Coon cat, its coat a drenched tangle of brown tabby stripes, sat composed in front of the reception desk.

Instead of a hungry meow, the cat simply fixed Hana with piercing blue eyes. That look... it wasn't an animal's. It was the look of someone deeply annoyed by slow service.

Without so much as a by your leave, the cat leapt onto the examination table in one fluid, elegant motion. He stared at the glowing computer screen, then at Hana’s hands. With a large, tufted forepaw, he authoritatively hooked the keyboard toward himself.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Sharp claws struck the keys with terrifying precision. Hana approached hesitantly, her eyes widening at the words appearing on the monitor:

"I. DO. NOT. HAVE. MUCH. TIME. TREAT. THE. WOUND. ON. MY. BELLY. NOW. NO. QUESTIONS."

Hana froze. She was caught between the instinct to flee in terror and the urge to faint from the sheer absurdity of it. The cat then reclined on the table, exposing a lacerated underbelly, while maintaining a gaze that clearly dictated: Get to work.

Hana stood petrified for five full seconds.

The coffee cup in her hand trembled.

Okay. Breathe. Okay.

"Very well," she finally whispered, her voice steadier than she expected. She set the cup on a side table with exaggerated care, the kind of care one takes when afraid a sudden movement might shatter a fragile hallucination. No questions.

Latex gloves snapped onto her hands. Snap. Snap.

She approached the table cautiously. Not out of fear-well, perhaps a little, but mostly out of professionalism. Yes, professionalism. That was the mantra she chanted to herself over those three short steps.

The cat continued to watch her, those blue eyes feeling less like a pet's gaze and more like a high-stakes audit.

Hana illuminated the area with an exam light, leaning in to inspect the injury. Her fingers moved with the muscle memory of a thousand previous procedures, checking depth, scanning for infection, gauging the bleed.

Her mouth stayed shut.

But her mind? Her mind was screaming in sheer bewilderment.

A minute passed in a strange, heavy silence. Hana cleaned the wound with antiseptic, her hands operating on autopilot while her consciousness struggled to catch up. She stole a glance at the monitor. The sentence was still there.

I. DO. NOT. HAVE. MUCH. TIME.

Hana exhaled softly through her nose.

"This wound..." she murmured, mostly to herself, "...it's four to six hours old. Not from a blunt object."

She didn't ask. She simply stated facts. She had promised no questions, and Hana was a doctor of her word.

She picked up the suturing needle.

"This will be a bit unpleasant," she said flatly, meeting those blue eyes with the most professional expression a human could muster at 3:00 AM after the most surreal event of her life. "But I suspect you already know that."

The cat didn't flinch. No struggling, no hissing. He just watched her as if to say, Fine, just do your job.

The needle moved. Hana worked in silence.

Twelve stitches later, she placed the instruments onto the tray with a soft metallic clink, stripped off her gloves, and glanced at the clock. 03:27 AM.

"Done," she said clippedly.

The cat lifted his head. His blue eyes swept over his own belly, inspecting the craftsmanship like a foreman checking a contractor's work, before looking back at Hana.

Hana raised an eyebrow. "What? Is something missing?"

The cat rose slowly, stepping toward the keyboard with an undiminished grace despite the twelve fresh stitches, and began to type.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"THE STITCHING IS NEAT. BUT THE ANTISEPTIC STINGS. NO NEED FOR SO MUCH."

Hana stared at the screen. Then at the cat. Then back at the screen.

"You were just stitched up without full anesthesia at three in the morning," Hana said quietly, "and your complaint is about the antiseptic."

Tap. Tap.

"I AM MERELY PROVIDING CONSTRUCTIVE FEEDBACK."

"Feedback." Hana repeated the word in a deadpan tone. "Right."

She turned away, beginning to clear the equipment. Her hands were busy, but her head was a crowded hallway of unanswered questions. This cat had let himself in. No owner. No collar. No microchip. And most importantly...

This cat could type. With proper grammar. And used the phrase 'constructive feedback.'

Hana closed her eyes for a moment. Hana. You need sleep. Or maybe you're already asleep and this is a dream.

The sound of clicking keys broke her reverie.

"HANA ADISTYA. VETERINARIAN. GRADUATE OF IPB. GPA 3.78. THIS CLINIC IS OPEN 24 HOURS BUT THE CONDITION IS LAMENTABLE. THE CAT TREE IN THE WAITING ROOM IS CROOKED."

Hana turned around slowly. "You know my name."

Tap.

"THERE IS A NAMEPLATE ON THE DESK."

Oh. Right. Hana glanced toward the reception area. There was indeed a nameplate there. A 3:00 AM brain was a truly unreliable thing.

"And as for that crooked cat tree," Hana crossed her arms, "I reported it to building management three weeks ago. No action yet. Thank you for the feedback."

The cat blinked once.

Tap.

"INEFFICIENT. IF I RAN THIS BUILDING, IT WOULD BE FIXED IN TWO HOURS."

Hana took a deep breath.

"You," she said softly, pointing a finger at the feline, "are the most annoying patient I have ever handled. And I once treated an iguana that bit three doctors before it even reached my table."

The cat stared at her for a long time.

Then, he typed a single word.

"ADEQUATE."

Hana couldn't tell if it was an insult or a compliment. She decided she didn't want to know, turned her back, and began brewing a fresh pot of coffee.

Because clearly, the night was still young, and she was going to need more caffeine than she had ever imagined possible.

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