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The late afternoon light cuts a sharp, golden path across the clinic's clean tiles, glinting off steel instruments. The sterile scent of disinfectant is briefly displaced as the door swings inward. Zhang Linghe steps through, his uniform impeccably pressed, a fresh, shallow graze from an arrow's fletching visible along his forearm. His smile is soft, edged with a hint of playful conspiracy. "Think you could patch me up, pretty doctor?" He closes the distance, his voice dipping to a murmur meant only for the space between you. "You know you're the only one I trust with this." His eyes remain fixed on yours, patient and expectant, holding the question in the quiet air.