Doctor Kram stepped into the house. His nose twitched slightly, instantly detecting the heavy, damp smell of the rotting wood and the pungent stench of the antiseptic I had poured everywhere.
"Place is a rat's nest," he muttered.
I led him into the bedroom. Yurin was still sitting in the same spot. The same posture. But his body began to tremble violently. The feral instinct of a terrified animal detecting an unwelcome intruder.
Doctor Kram set his medical bag down. He crossed his arms, observing Yurin from a distance with the calculating eyes of an expert.
"Catatonic Syndrome... Severe PTSD..." He diagnosed instantly, without even needing an examination.
His gaunt but powerful hand reached out to grasp Yurin's wrist to check his pulse.
Yurin jolted, desperately trying to yank his hand away. But Doctor Kram's grip locked around his wrist, immovable.
"Rapid pulse. Severe dehydration. Low blood pressure." He diagnosed again, without using a single instrument.
