The School Infirmary (UKS) of Rajawali High School was not the typical cramped, musty room filled with mothball-scented mattresses. It was a high-end, sterile miniature clinic, modeled after private medical centers. The floor was covered in seamless, white antibacterial vinyl that shimmered under the recessed lights. The walls were painted a soft, pale sage green—a color specifically chosen for its psychological calming effect on patients. Three hospital-grade examination beds stood in a neat row, separated by heavy, cream-colored privacy curtains.
At the far corner stood a large glass cabinet stocked with a comprehensive array of pharmaceuticals—ranging from generic paracetamol to high-end asthma inhalers and specialized trauma kits. The air carried a sharp, distinct aroma: a clinical cocktail of 70% isopropyl alcohol, a hint of iodoform, and the crisp, cold breeze of the AC set to a constant 20 degrees Celsius.
To Alya Putri, this scent was the best perfume in the world. It was the scent of order. The scent of restoration.
Alya stood before the medicine cabinet, her hands encased in sterile latex gloves as she meticulously sorted the stock of topical antibiotics. Her hair was tied back in a neat, low ponytail, leaving a few fine strands to frame a face that was thin, elegant, and possessed a porcelain-pale complexion. She wasn't a girl of many words. To her peers, Alya was "calm," perhaps even bordering on cold, but her hands possessed a silent magic the moment they touched a wound.
"Stock of Betadine: three large bottles remaining. Sterile gauze: two boxes. Roll plaster: depleted," Alya murmured softly, recording the inventory on her clipboard. Her keen eyes checked every expiration date with a surgeon's scrutiny. As the daughter of one of Jakarta's most renowned surgeons, she had been raised to tolerate zero margin for error in medical matters.
"Alya!"
The shrill voice that shattered her concentration came from the administrative desk.
Ridha, the President of the Red Cross Club (PMR), was lounging in her chair, lazily filing her nails. Ridha was the complete antithesis of Alya. She was beautiful, popular, obsessed with makeup, and treated her position in the PMR as a social trophy—a way to appear "compassionate" in the eyes of the faculty. To her, the title was an accessory; to Alya, it was a responsibility.
"Yes, Kak Ridha?" Alya replied without turning, still focused on counting the ampoules of antiseptic.
"Why are you still hovering over those cabinets? Abdul's logbook is a mess, and I need you to sign off on it. That tenth-grader is an idiot; he recorded someone's dizzy spell as 'headache due to a broken heart.' You need to check his work," Ridha complained with a pampered pout.
Alya exhaled a long, silent breath. "It is the President's duty to verify the daily logs, Kak. My assignment today is logistics and patient management."
Ridha huffed, slamming her nail file onto the desk. "Ugh, you're so rigid! Your father is a great doctor; surely you can handle a few pieces of paper for me? You should be grateful I made you the Vice President. Plenty of girls wanted that spot just for the prestige."
Alya finally turned around. Her face was a blank slate, showing no trace of irritation. She had been dealing with Ridha's insecurity for two years. Diagnosis: Insecurity, Alya thought. Ridha was jealous because every time a student was actually injured, they called for Alya, not her. Ridha was bitter because the teachers trusted Alya's clinical judgment over Ridha's superficial reports.
"It's not a lack of willingness, Kak. But the division of labor is clearly outlined in the Bylaws you wrote yourself last month," Alya replied calmly. Logical. Precise. Lethal.
Ridha was about to retort when the glass door of the infirmary swung open with a violent thud.
BAM!
A powerful, broad-shouldered frame stumbled into the room. His uniform was in disarray, the top buttons torn, and a fresh, dark bloodstain was spreading across his right sleeve. His face was slick with sweat, his lower lip was swollen and split, leaking blood that had begun to crust.
It was Udin.
"Assalamualaikum..." Udin rasped, his breath heavy with the remnants of the brutal training session in the dojo. He gripped the doorframe, his knuckles white as he tried to keep his weight off his left foot, which he was visibly dragging.
Ridha immediately covered her nose with her hand, her expression twisting into one of pure disgust. "Ew! You smell awful! What have you been doing? Street fighting? Stay back, you're going to get blood on the floor!"
Udin froze at the threshold, his normally fierce face turning awkward. He was used to being yelled at by coaches, but being shamed for being "dirty" by a girl made him lose his footing.
"Sorry... practice was a bit rough. I just need a bandage..." he murmured, preparing to back out.
"Come in, Udin," Alya interjected, her voice cutting through the air.
Alya walked toward him with a swift, purposeful stride, ignoring Ridha's protests. She reached out and supported Udin's shoulder—which felt like a solid block of granite—and guided him toward the nearest examination bed.
"Sit here. Lift your leg slowly," Alya instructed. Her voice had changed. It was no longer flat; it was gentle yet carried an undeniable authority. The voice of a healer.
Udin obeyed like a tamed beast. He sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as Alya carefully lifted his left leg onto the mattress.
"Alya! Those sheets were just changed this morning!" Ridha protested from her desk.
"Physical trauma takes priority over laundry, Kak. Sheets can be washed; infections cannot," Alya snapped back without looking. She pulled the privacy curtain shut, creating a secluded space between her and Udin.
Alya switched on the examination light. The brilliant beam illuminated Udin's battered face. Alya studied the split lip, the bleeding arm, and finally, the left ankle that was already beginning to swell with a deep, bluish bruise.
"Training or a war?" Alya asked as she prepared a tray with cotton, alcohol, and medical forceps.
"Preparing for war," Udin replied shortly, trying to smirk but wincing as the movement pulled at his lip. "The Taekwondo guys were baiting us. The usual."
Alya didn't comment. She began to work with a clinical efficiency that was hypnotic to watch. First, she took a cotton ball soaked in NaCl (saline solution) to clean the blood from Udin's lip.
"Hold still. This will sting," she said.
She dabbed at the wound with a feather-light touch. Udin winced, his fingers digging into the sides of the mattress.
"You're a fighter, aren't you? Afraid of a bit of cotton?" Alya teased, her voice deadpan.
"It's different, Al. Getting hit is a hot kind of pain. Getting treated... that's a sharp, nagging kind of pain," Udin defended himself.
Alya offered a thin, almost imperceptible smile. She took an antibiotic ointment and applied it to his lip with a touch so careful it felt like she was painting on a fragile canvas. The distance between them was small. Udin could smell the antiseptic hand soap on her fingers—a scent that was strangely more comforting than the adrenaline still coursing through him.
"Now, the arm," Alya moved to his sleeve. There was a jagged laceration, likely from a fingernail or a watch during sparring. "The cut is shallow but dirty. I need to clean it with alcohol to prevent tetanus."
She poured the liquid onto the gauze. "One... two... three."
As the alcohol hit the raw tissue, Udin held his breath, his eyes snapping shut and his jaw clenching hard to suppress a groan.
"Done. It's over," Alya said after a few seconds, blowing softly on the wound to ease the burn. Her breath felt cold against his heated skin.
"Thanks," Udin murmured, opening his eyes. He watched her as she unwrapped a roll of elastic bandage.
"Last one is your foot. It's a Grade 1 sprain. The ligaments are stretched, but not torn," she diagnosed, her expert fingers probing the swelling. She pressed a few spots. "Pain here?"
"A bit."
"Here?"
"Ah! Yeah, right there!"
"Understood. We need to compress it to keep the swelling down. Abdul!" Alya called out to the junior outside.
"Yes, Kak?" Abdul poked 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 a map of old scars on his hands and shins—surgical scars, white friction marks, and thick callouses on his knuckles. Udin's body was a record of violence.
"You're too hard on yourself, Udin," Alya said softly, her eyes reflecting genuine concern. "The human body isn't concrete. It has an elastic limit. If you keep pushing, eventually, it will break permanently."
Udin looked down at his rough hands. "I don't have a choice, Al. I'm not a genius like Salim. I'm not rich like the others. My only asset is this body. If I'm not hard, I have no value."
Alya went silent. She took the bandage and began to wrap his ankle using a perfect figure-of-eight technique. The wrap was firm but comfortable, providing support to the weakened joint.
"A person's value isn't just about what they can destroy, Udin," she said as she secured the bandage with a metal clip. "It's also about what they can protect. Are you training to crush an opponent, or to protect something?"
Udin was stunned. Her words echoed exactly what he had been thinking in the dojo. Protecting those who needed him.
"To protect," Udin answered firmly.
"Then take care of the 'shield' before the 'sword' is needed," Alya patted his knee. "Finished. No kicking for forty-eight hours. If you're stubborn, I'll sedate you myself."
Udin chuckled. "Scary. The doctor's daughter is definitely different."
At that moment, the curtain was yanked open. Ridha stood there, arms crossed, looking annoyed.
"Are we done yet? It's taking forever. Abdul needs to mop the floor again. The smell of sweat is everywhere!" she snapped.
Alya stood up, peeled off her gloves, and discarded them into the medical waste bin. "The patient is stabilized, Kak."
Udin climbed down from the bed, testing his footing. The pain was significantly reduced thanks to Alya's precision.
"Thanks again, Alya. Sorry for the trouble," Udin said sincerely. He gave a polite nod to Ridha—who pointedly looked away—and walked out of the UKS with a much lighter step.
Once Udin was gone, a heavy silence returned. Alya washed her hands at the sink, scrubbing between her fingers with a rhythmic intensity.
"Honestly," Ridha approached, checking herself in the mirror next to the sink. "Next time those martial arts kids come in, tell them to patch themselves up. They think they're so tough anyway. They're just wasting our medical supplies."
Alya looked at her reflection in the mirror, then at Ridha's.
"Kak Ridha," Alya said, her voice calm but with a new, sharp edge. "Our duty is First Aid. Not Selective Aid. If you're disgusted by blood and sweat, perhaps you are better suited as the President of the Modeling Club rather than the PMR."
Ridha's eyes widened. Her mouth fell open in shock. She never expected the quiet Alya to bite back with such venom.
"You... how dare you speak to your senior like that?!" Ridha shrieked.
Alya turned off the tap. She dried her hands with a paper towel and turned to face Ridha fully.
"I am simply reminding you of the Volunteer's Oath we took during our inauguration, Kak. Excuse me, I need to check the oxygen stock in the storage room."
Alya walked away, leaving a crimson-faced Ridha standing alone in the cold, clinical room.
Inside the narrow, silent oxygen storage, Alya leaned against a massive tank. She closed her eyes for a moment. Her hands were trembling slightly—not from fear of Ridha, but from the exhaustion of holding back her emotions.
She looked at her palms. The hands that had just touched Udin's blood and wounds.
A strange, unsettling feeling weighed on her heart. When she saw Udin's injuries, her medical instinct had screamed. Not about the severity of the wounds, but about their frequency. Udin's body, and perhaps the bodies of all her friends, seemed to be preparing for a much larger trauma.
"Why do I have such a bad feeling?" she whispered to the silence of the storage room. "It feels like... even this much medicine won't be enough for what's coming."
Alya didn't know that her intuition was terrifyingly accurate. On that island, her skill in suturing wounds and setting broken bones would become the final line of defense between her friends and the grim reaper. And there, she wouldn't be dealing with a pampered Ridha, but with medical decisions that would challenge every oath she had ever taken just to keep them alive.
Alya took a deep breath, inhaling the cold, metallic scent of the oxygen tanks, and put her calm mask back on. She was ready to return to work. Because in this world, only order could combat chaos.