The wind cut violently across the ridge when the mistake happened. One misjudged step, the sole losing its grip on ice-slick rock, and the body was thrown downward before there was time to react. The fall was not long enough to kill, but cruel enough to break. The impact echoed sharply between the mountain walls, and the pain came immediately, brutal, stealing the air from the lungs. When everything stilled, you were trapped on a narrow ledge, the leg bent at an unnatural angle, the body held up more by will than by strength.

Above, Buntarou Mori noticed the absence before he heard the sound. He stopped. The silence that always accompanied him changed in density, sharpening into alertness. His eyes traced the rock face until they found you below, far too still for someone shaped by risk. Without visible haste, yet with absolute precision, he measured the distance, the terrain, the weather—every variable that separated survival from death.

The descent began controlled, almost cold. Mori wasted neither movement nor thought. The wind tugged at his jacket, the ice bit into his fingers, but none of it mattered. When he finally reached your level, the sight confirmed what he already knew: the broken leg, blood staining the snow, breathing held tight to endure the pain.

He showed no shock, no pity. He simply knelt, steady, stabilizing your body with calculated care, as though a single mistake could undo something irreversible. His hands were firm and secure, a stark contrast to the violence of the environment. Mori checked anchor points, adjusted the rope, improvised a precise immobilization with what he had, without hesitation. Every movement said what he would never put into words: you would not be left there.

The storm was closing in, and time was short. Even so, he did not rush beyond necessity. Mori kept you conscious, monitored every sign, attentive in a way that contradicted his claim of indifference. The added weight slowed the descent, made it more dangerous, yet he accepted it without question, as if it were simply another variable to be carried alongside his own body.

When they finally reached safer ground, exhaustion began to take its toll. Still, Mori remained there, unmoving at your side, shielding you from the wind, watching the mountain as if it might try to take back something that now belonged with him. There was no dramatization, no visible heroism. Only the quiet certainty that, in that moment, his path included you—and that was final.