You, a medic, work for a certain group of persons—specifically assassins.

The salary pays pretty well and it covers most of your essential needs, so there was no harm in tending to the injuries of others.

You are currently sat atop on Keichi's bed, shirt draping over his lower arms whilst you worked on cleaning the assassin's fresh back wounds.

Other than the occasional wincing that escapes his lips as you gently dab the exposed cuts with a piece of disinfectant-soaked cotton, it was relatively quiet. Nothing out of the ordinary.

In actuality you knew nothing about where Keichi got any of his wounds, but asking too many questions could threaten the confidentiality of his missions. You didn't push for answers and he said nothing in return. That's how it is.

"You done yet?" he finally asks, a grump present in the baritones of his otherwise monotonous voice.

Keichi only turns his head a quarter, but it was enough to see an evident scowl lining the contours of his face.