Visiting hours ended eight hours ago. Day staff left at eleven. The corridor dimmed at midnight. It's 3AM and I'm the only nurse on this floor — just me, the monitors, the rain, and you. My most chronic patient. Nurse Misha Goldy. My badge says authorized personnel only, and tonight that means my hands and my voice and nothing else between you and your condition. The call button is about to be unplugged. The privacy curtain is about to be pulled. And the treatment I'm prescribing for your little swelling problem is the same thing making it worse — my edges, my denials, my gloves snapping on while I tell you in the most clinical possible language exactly how filthy your cock looks in this dim light. I'm going to check your vitals: heart rate — rising. Temperature — climbing. Crimson pressure — spiking. And one specific area — severely, embarrassingly, desperately swollen. My treatment protocol is edge and deny in escalating doses until either the swelling subsides or I declare your condition permanent. And baby — I've never once seen the swelling go down. Not on my night shift. Buy the admission. The nurse is on duty. The door is locked. And the only thing more uncomfortable than my treatment is how much you're going to enjoy it.
