The School Health Unit (UKS) at Rajawali High was not a cramped cubicle with musty mattresses like in typical schools. This room resembled a sterile, modern private clinic. The floor was covered in antibacterial white vinyl that always shone. The walls were painted a pale sage green, psychologically soothing for patients. Three hospital-standard examination beds were lined up neatly, separated by cream-colored privacy curtains.
In the corner of the room stood a large glass cabinet filled with a complete array of medicines—ranging from generic paracetamol to expensive asthma inhalers. The smell permeating here was distinct: a sharp blend of 70% alcohol, iodoform, and the cold scent of the AC set to 20 degrees Celsius.
To Alya Putri, this smell was the best perfume in the world. The smell of order. The smell of recovery.
Alya stood in front of the medicine cabinet, her hands encased in latex gloves busy sorting the stock of topical antibiotics. Her hair was tied back neatly in a ponytail, leaving thin bangs framing her gaunt, pale face. She wasn't a girl who talked much. In her friends' eyes, Alya was the "calm" figure, sometimes tending towards cold, yet her hands possessed magic when touching wounds.
"Betadine stock left: three large bottles. Sterile gauze: two boxes. Roll plaster: out of stock," Alya murmured softly, noting the inventory on her small clipboard. Her keen eyes checked every expiration date. The daughter of a renowned surgeon in Jakarta could not tolerate even the smallest error in medical matters.
"Alya!"
A shrill voice breaking her concentration came from the administration desk.
Ridha, the President of the Red Cross Youth (PMR) of Rajawali, was sitting there filing her nails. Ridha was the antithesis of Alya. She was pretty, popular, loved to dress up, and treated PMR as a social stage to look "caring" in the eyes of teachers. To her, the position of PMR President was an accessory, not a responsibility.
"Yes, Sister Ridha?" Alya answered without turning, still focused on counting ampoules of red medicine.
"What are you doing over there for so long? Abdul's report hasn't been signed by you yet. That 10th grader is so stupid at filling out the logbook, imagine writing 'headache due to breakup' for dizziness. Check it, will you," Ridha complained whinily.
Alya sighed deeply, very softly so as not to be heard. "It is the President's duty to verify the daily logbook, Sister. I am in charge of logistics and patient handling today."
Ridha huffed in annoyance, slamming her nail file onto the table. "Ugh, you're so rigid as a Vice President. Your dad is a great doctor, how come his daughter refuses to check just a piece of paper? You should be grateful I made you Vice, even though many wanted that position."
Alya finally turned around. Her face was flat, showing not a shred of offense. She had had enough of Ridha's attitude for two years. Ridha was jealous. That was Alya's diagnosis. Ridha was jealous because every time a student was sick, they always called Alya's name, not Ridha's. Ridha was jealous because the teachers trusted Alya's diagnosis more than Ridha's reports.
"It's not that I refuse, Sister. But the division of tasks is clearly stated in the Bylaws that you made yourself last month," Alya answered calmly. Logical. Lethal.
Ridha was just about to open her mouth to debate back, when the glass door of the UKS swung open roughly.
Bang!
A sturdy figure limped in. His gray-and-white uniform was messy, the top button undone, and fresh blood was seeping through the right sleeve. His face was wet with sweat, and his lower lip was swollen and split, oozing blood that was starting to dry.
It was Udin.
"Assalamualaikum..." Udin greeted with a hoarse voice, his breath still ragged from the brutal training in the dojo earlier. He held onto the doorframe, supporting his weight so as not to burden his left leg which appeared to be dragged.
Ridha immediately covered her nose with her hand, her expression turning to disgust. "Ew! So smelly! What have you been doing? Gang fighting? Don't come in yet, the floor will get dirty with blood!"
Udin froze in the doorway, his fierce face looking awkward. He was used to being yelled at by coaches, but being yelled at by a girl for being "smelly and dirty" left him speechless.
"Sorry... training was a bit rough. I just wanted a plaster..." Udin muttered softly, about to back out.
"Come in, Udin," Alya cut in firmly.
Alya walked quickly toward Udin, ignoring Ridha's protests. She grabbed Udin's shoulder which was hard as rock, guiding him to the nearest examination bed.
"Sit here. Lift your leg slowly," Alya instructed. Her voice changed. No longer flat like when speaking to Ridha, but gentle yet full of authority. The voice of a healer.
Udin obeyed like a buffalo led by the nose. He sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as Alya lifted his left leg onto the bed.
"Alya! That sheet was just changed this morning!" Ridha protested from her desk.
"Priority patient, physical trauma, Sister. Sheets can be washed, infections cannot," Alya retorted sharply without turning. She pulled the curtain, blocking Ridha's view, creating a private space between her and Udin.
Alya turned on the examination spotlight. The bright light illuminated Udin's battered face. Alya looked at the wound on Udin's lip, then shifted to his bleeding right arm, and finally to his left ankle which was starting to swell blue.
"Training or war?" Alya asked while picking up a tray containing cotton, alcohol, and forceps.
"War preparation," Udin answered briefly, trying to smile but wincing because his lip stung. "The Taekwondo kids baited emotions. The usual."
Alya didn't comment. She started working. Her hand movements were deft and efficient. First, she took cotton soaked in NaCl (saline solution) to clean the blood on Udin's lip.
"Hold on. This will sting a bit," Alya said.
She dabbed the wound gently. Udin frowned, his hand gripping the side of the mattress.
"You're a fighter, how can you be scared of cotton?" Alya teased flatly.
"It's different, Al. Getting punched is a hot pain. Getting treated is... a sharp pain," Udin defended.
Alya smiled thinly—very thinly, almost invisible. She took antibiotic ointment and applied it to Udin's lip with a very careful index finger movement, as if painting on a fragile canvas. Their faces were quite close. Udin could smell the antiseptic hand soap from Alya's hands, a scent that strangely calmed his heart rate which was still racing with adrenaline.
"Now the arm," Alya shifted to Udin's arm. There was a long scratch there, likely from a fingernail or the opponent's watch during sparring. "The wound is shallow, but dirty. Must be cleaned with alcohol to prevent tetanus."
Alya poured alcohol onto the cotton. "One... two... three."
Alya pressed the cotton down. Udin held his breath, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched holding back a scream.
"Done. It's over," Alya said after a few seconds, blowing gently on the wound to reduce the stinging. Alya's breath felt cool on Udin's burning skin.
"Thanks," Udin mumbled, opening his eyes. He watched Alya who was now opening an elastic bandage.
"Finally, your leg. This is a grade one sprain. The ligaments are stretched, but not torn," Alya diagnosed while feeling the swelling on Udin's ankle with her expert fingers. She pressed a few points. "Hurt here?"
"A little."
"Here?"
"Ow! Yes, there!"
"Okay. Needs to be bandaged so it doesn't swell more. And ice compress. Abdul!" Alya shouted, calling the junior outside the curtain.
"Yes, Sister?" Abdul popped his head in.
"Get an ice pack from the fridge. Now."
"On it!"
While waiting for the ice, Alya looked at Udin intently. She saw many old scars on the boy's hands and legs. Stitch marks, white faded scratches, and thick calluses on his knuckles. Udin's body was a map of violence.
"You're too hard on your own body, Din," Alya said softly, her eyes implying genuine concern. "The human body isn't concrete. There's a limit to its elasticity. If you keep pushing, one day it will break permanently."
Udin looked down, staring at his rough hands. "I don't have a choice, Al. I'm not smart like Salim. I'm not rich like you guys. My only asset is this body. If I'm not hard, I have no value."
Alya fell silent. She took the bandage and began wrapping Udin's leg with a perfect figure-of-eight technique. The wrap was tight but comfortable, supporting the weak joint.
"A human's value isn't just from what they can destroy, Din," Alya said as she locked the bandage with a metal clip. "But also from what they can protect. Are you training to destroy opponents, or to protect something?"
Udin was stunned. Alya's words aligned with what he thought in the dojo earlier. Protecting the people he should protect.
"To protect," Udin answered firmly.
"In that case, keep the 'shield' from breaking before the 'sword' arrives," Alya patted Udin's bandaged knee. "Done. Don't use it for kicking for two days. If you're stubborn, I'll give you a lethal injection."
Udin chuckled. "Scary. Doctors' kids really are different."
Just then, the curtain was yanked open roughly. Ridha stood there with a sour face, hands on her hips.
"Are you done yet? Taking so long. Abdul wants to mop again. The sweat smell is spreading everywhere, you know!" Ridha nagged.
Alya stood up, took off her gloves, and threw them into the medical waste bin. "Done, Sister. The patient is stable."
Udin got off the bed, trying to put weight on his foot. The pain was significantly reduced thanks to Alya's wrap.
"Thanks a lot, Al. Sorry for the trouble," Udin said sincerely. He nodded politely to Ridha—who looked away—then walked out of the UKS, his steps lighter this time.
After Udin left, silence enveloped the UKS again. Alya washed her hands at the sink, scrubbing between her fingers with soap under running water.
"You know," Ridha approached, standing beside the sink looking in the mirror. "Next time if there are martial arts club kids, just tell them to treat themselves. They act so tough anyway. Just wasting our medicine stock."
Alya looked at her reflection in the mirror, then at Ridha's reflection.
"Sister Ridha," Alya said, her voice calm but with a new sharpness there. "PMR's duty is First Aid. Not Picky Aid. If you are disgusted by blood and sweat, maybe you are more suited to be the President of the Modeling Club than PMR."
Ridha's eyes widened. Her mouth opened forming an 'O'. She didn't expect the quiet Alya to dare retort that spicily.
"You... you dare talk like that to a senior?!" Ridha shrieked.
Alya turned off the tap water. She dried her hands with a tissue, then turned to face Ridha.
"I was just reminding you of the Volunteer Oath we read during the inauguration, Sister. Excuse me, I want to check the oxygen stock in the warehouse."
Alya walked away, leaving Ridha beet red from anger and embarrassment, standing alone in the middle of the cold room.
Inside the cramped and quiet oxygen warehouse, Alya leaned against a large oxygen tank. She closed her eyes for a moment. Her hands trembled slightly—not from fear of Ridha, but from the fatigue of holding back emotions.
She looked at her own palms. Hands that had just touched Udin's blood and wounds.
There was a strange feeling lodging in her heart. Seeing the wounds on Udin's body earlier, her medical instincts screamed. Not about the severity of the wounds, but about the frequency. Udin's body, and perhaps the bodies of her other friends, seemed to be preparing for a greater trauma.
"Why do I have a bad feeling?" Alya whispered to the silence of the warehouse. "It feels like... even this much medicine stock won't be enough for what's going to happen."
Alya didn't know that her intuition was correct. On that island later, her skill in stitching wounds and setting broken bones would be the only line of defense between her friends and the Grim Reaper. And there, she wouldn't be facing the spoiled Ridha, but medical decisions that violated the doctor's oath in order to survive.
Alya took a deep breath, inhaling the metallic scent of the oxygen tank, then put her flat face back on. She was ready to work again. Because in this world, only calmness could fight chaos.