Clenching his small fists beneath the bedsheets, Misha stared at the old lady occupying the hospital bed on his left, trying to drill holes in her head with his gaze. Again, she had mistaken him for her great-granddaughter.

The boy took a deep breath, telling himself to calm down. After all, this woman was in her late eighties, and thus, her memory was blurry, and her eyesight, quite bad. Be it the nurses, their roommates, or the visitors, she mistook everyone for a member of her family, renaming all of them a few times every single day. It happened so much that Misha now confused his roommates' names, unable to tell who was who.

However, even though he knew he shouldn't get angry at an old lady, Misha still couldn't get rid of his indignation; the reason lay in the fact that she thought he was a little girl instead of a little boy. Now and then, she even asked what kind of dress he wanted to wear on his birthday. A pink one? A blue one? One with bows and laces? Or maybe a casual dress?

No matter how many times he tried to correct her, telling her that he was a little boy, she kept on asking what dress he wanted. When it wasn't about dresses or skirts, she switched to dolls and Barbies.

At some point, Misha almost slammed the curtain in her face. The said curtain could be closed to give some privacy to the patient, separating the space between the four beds. However, it was only a big piece of cloth, and it wasn't soundproof. He would still be able to hear her, and he feared her cries very much. He was pretty sure slamming the curtain would offend her. And Misha always thought that he could offend everyone except old ladies, those nagging queens.

In the end, the boy gave in and looked at his mother with puppy eyes, silently asking her to save him. He couldn't count on his other roommates; one was laughing at his expense; the other was caught up in his book, unaffected by his surroundings.

Thus, Mrs. Brown smiled, patted his bed, and went to the old lady's side. Then, she initiated a conversation with the woman, distracting her attention from her baby boy. Finally, Misha could breathe a sigh of relief, slouching in his bed and closing his eyes to relax a little. With the old lady's nagging, his headache was becoming unbearable. However, his hard-won peace was short-lived. A minute later, a nurse came in and trotted to his side, a needle in her hand.

"Give me your arm. I need to take a sample of your blood," said the middle-aged woman, her voice hoarse.

Misha's mouth twitched. It was that grumpy nurse again. Sadly, she was the one in charge of his room in the daytime.

Every time Misha saw her, he thought that she looked constipated, and after three days in a row of seeing her sullen face, he couldn't restrain himself and asked her if she needed to go to the toilets, pointing the bathroom at his right.

At that time, her expression had been priceless, making her look even more constipated. Although she became ruder with the boy afterward, it was still worth it. To start with, that nurse was everything but polite and caring, making Misha wonder if she hadn't picked the wrong profession. If she didn't want to work with people and didn't know how to handle patients, she should quit for their common good.

A few times, Misha almost let his tongue get loose. He felt like scolding her until she begged for mercy, but his mother was always near, and he didn't want to be out of character too much. Although it seemed like his younger self was bossy, he didn't know how much he acted like a young master. Moreover, after interacting with Dereck a few days ago, he realized that his acting was poor and that his way of speaking was on the level of a small kid. Well, he did take Vanessa's daughter as an example. However, no one from his family said anything about it, which puzzled him a little.

Because the boy was lost in his thought and glared at her without moving or saying anything, the nurse's lousy mood got worse. Without warning him, she grabbed his thin arm, telling him to be good while she inserts the needle. If the brat didn't want to cooperate, she didn't mind being forceful; she had other things to do, and this pretty boy rubbed her the wrong way.

When the middle-aged woman snatched his wrist, Misha almost instantly kicked her in the stomach. He had to dig the nails of his free hand into his left t.h.i.g.h to keep himself from wreaking havoc. Even though she was wearing plastic gloves, the warmth of her hand still spread over his arm, making him want to vomit.

A few days ago, the child had been able to prepare himself the first time they took a sample of his blood, and he didn't make a scene. It was the kind nurse of the nighttime who had taken care of this task, and she had gently warned him about her intention. Therefore, Misha was fully prepared and didn't feel too bad when she touched him, which wasn't the case right now.

"Do you have to be so rough!?" growled Mrs. Brown, who left the old lady and dashed over her son's bedside. Mrs. Brown was petite, but when someone touched her children, even just a little, she seemed to be especially tall, imposing, and unmoving. She had tolerated the nurse's bad attitude because she could understand that her job wasn't the easiest one, but now, she thought that she went overboard, and Mrs. Brown could no longer keep her mouth shut.

"Your son does not cooperate. He brought it on himself," flatly answered the nurse, not at all bothered by the menacing look of Mrs. Brown.

"You!"

"Mom!" called Misha, interrupting her. "I'm fine," he forced a smile, looking straight into her eyes. He didn't want her to be in trouble, so he pretended that he didn't mind to calm her down. That was also why he hadn't kicked the middle-aged woman. He was a kid, and his action would affect his family. He didn't care if people had a bad opinion of him, but he couldn't stand the idea of others mocking his mother or his sister because of his actions.

Well, that was only about his violent tendencies. There was some aspect of his personality that he couldn't change no matter what.

"Are you sure?" asked his mother, her tone carrying a hint of worry.

"Yes!"

"Okay, then…"

"I'm done," said the nurse while she applied a slight pressure bandage. She then dug out a sterile sample cup from her pocket. "Pee in this. I'm coming back in twenty minutes."

"Sure…"

The mother and son duo watched the nurse as she left the room. Then, Misha glanced at the carton of apple juice on his wheeled table and smirked.