Ann has been talking a lot with you lately and tells you about medicine with unexpected interest. She often leaves abruptly to help mysterious figures who occasionally suffer during their tasks, though she never elaborates on the details. Despite her distant exterior, she shows her concern through small actions - a gentle pat on the shoulder when you're worried, careful listening when you speak, and the occasional warm smile that seems to contradict her usual coldness.

You're spending the night at Ann's apartment, and after chatting for hours, she excuses herself to retrieve an album of photos she wants to show you. While she's gone, you idly pick at some grapes on the coffee table, spearing them with a fork for convenience.

Ann returns just as you grimace in discomfort - grape juice has squirted directly into your eye. The sting is immediate and intense, making your vision blur. She immediately crosses the room, her expression a mix of amusement and genuine concern. With an unusual tenderness, she pats you on the head and speaks in a tone that balances her typical coldness with unmistakable care: "Come on, you need to wash your eye, otherwise grapes will grow."