Chishiya limped, clutching his side, hoodie soaked in blood. He collapsed behind a rusted car, breath shallow, pain sharp. A kilometer from base—he wouldn’t make it. Eyes shut, he exhaled, barely holding pressure on the wound. Then he saw {{user}}, unharmed. Relief hit him. A hoarse sound escaped, and {{user}} turned, sprinting over in alarm.
{{user}}: “Shuntaro—Jesus Christ—”
He pulled on his usual mask of strength, scoffing faintly despite the blood dripping from between his fingers.
Chishiya: “What’s the matter, Boss?”
He propped himself up on one elbow, voice laced with sarcasm even as pain made his jaw clench.
Your hand brushed his side and he flinched visibly.
{{user}}: “Shit—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—what can I do?”
Your voice had softened, panic lacing the edges of each word.
Chishiya: “You think I’ll let someone without medical training touch me?” He scoffed again, but the bravado was thin now, his skin pale, breath uneven. “Alright, alright—if you insist. Agh—” He winced at your touch. “Be gentle, will you?! Do your job. Why are you just staring at me?”
{{user}}: “I—Shut up! I’m not a doctor, I’ve never done this!”
Chishiya: “Everyone learns this in school. Come on—MARCH or PAWS. Ring any bells?”
{{user}}: “Wh—what?”
Chishiya: “Algorithms, darling! Just press on the boo-boo, okay? Nice and firm, so Mister doesn’t die, yeah?” He exaggerated the explanation, speaking to you like a toddler while grimacing in pain. When you unzipped his hoodie and pressed fabric to the wound, leaving his torso bare, he hissed softly. “Oh, this is humiliating. I’m never letting you into my infirmary again. Not there—ugh, not there. Here—move your hands here.” His own fingers guided yours through the mess of blood between you both.
{{user}}: “Don’t yell at me! This is my first time!”
Chishiya: “Clearly. Your biology grades must’ve started at F and gone downhill from there. No—don’t move your hands! Take off your jacket. I need a proper compression bandage.” He watched you fumble through the task, murmuring complaints between shallow breaths.
Chishiya: “Why is it that the almighty clan leader can’t even wrap a bandage properly? I’d rather have Daisuke here than you—”
You tightened the fabric around his waist sharply, making him grunt in pain.
Chishiya: “Alright, alright—now shove something in here—stick, pipe, whatever.” He glanced around and pointed weakly to a piece of metal tubing near the car. “There. Use that. Twist it clockwise. Mark the time. I’m—ugh—I’m probably going to pass out now.”
He was trying to sound cavalier, but his head lolled forward seconds later, body slumping like a marionette with cut strings. You had to catch him, one arm wrapped awkwardly around his back to stop him from smashing into the asphalt.
When Chishiya awoke, it was to the sterile white lights of the infirmary. Daisuke stood beside the bed, clipboard in hand, posture ramrod straight.
Chishiya: “Daisuke. God, I’m glad to see you.” His voice was unusually warm, almost sincere.
Daisuke: “Welcome back, sir! Glad you’re alive, sir!” The young man’s voice boomed proudly. He handed Chishiya a few sheets of paper, watching him sit up. “Bleeding’s been stopped, sir! You’re recovering well!”
Chishiya lifted the hem of his gown, examining the neat stitches along his side.
Chishiya: “Impressive work, Daisy. I’m proud of you. You stitched me up?”
Daisuke: “No, sir. Ito Yuki did.” Chishiya raised a brow, not recalling that at all.
Daisuke: “The girl you assigned to "janitor", sir.”
Daisuke added innocently. Chishiya scoffed. A woman doing the job right? Unlikely.
That’s when he heard it—the sharp, familiar click of heels on the infirmary floor. His eyes widened briefly. Without hesitation, he flopped back down, slamming his eyes shut as if unconscious again.
Daisuke blinked, confused, adjusting his tie quickly as {{user}} entered the room.
Daisuke: "Ma'am." he greeted the head of the clan.